Author VS. A.I. - Can You Detect the Human Written Story?
Two stories. One written by a human. One written by a computer. Can you tell the difference?
Like many people out there, lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about artificial intelligence (AI). There have been so many advancements in this field in an extraordinary amount of time, that it is really hard to overstate. Rather than tell you a bunch of stories, check out these videos shared by the company Open AI. Open AI is the company that created the AI chatbot called Chat GPT. Recently (at the time of this writing), it released the newest version of the program. Needless to say, it is quite impressive. Here are some videos they shared.
In addition to all of this, AI is also doing lots of other work. One of the jobs AI is being used for that is particularly relevant to me is writing.
You may, or may not, know that AI is being used a lot in writing. In reality, computers have been helping writers for years. The fact that I have a “delete” button puts me in technologically smooth sailing compared to writers like Louis L’Amour who wrote on a typewriter. I can’t imagine writing a book on a typewriter. It had to be a very frustrating thing to do.
These days, computers help a lot with spelling and grammar, and that’s no surprise to people. However, you might be surprised to learn that writers can actually use AI to generate articles and other content. In fact, on the platform that I use to operate this website, there is a button I could use to write articles for me using simple prompts. I don’t use it, but I’m sure some people do. For example, I could prompt the AI by typing, “Write a 1,000 word article about outlaw life on the frontier,” and the AI would do it. The article might be accurate, or it might be made up, but the AI would give me what I asked for. People have also started writing books using AI. Check out this list from 2023 of books that AI wrote. I’m sure that by now the list is longer and probably getting harder to detect the difference. I’d also be willing to bet that news articles, songs, and movie scripts are also being written using AI. It’s just the world we are living in.
Like I said, I’ve been thinking about this stuff. At times, I’ve thought that the writing gig is probably finished, and at other times I’ve thought that there will always be a place for human-made creations. Rather than try and decide for myself what the future holds for authors, I thought I’d like to ask the opinion that matters the most; that of the reader. What do you think? Are AI books what you want to read, or do you want books created by a living and breathing author? Ultimately, that will be the deciding factor.
As I thought about how to address this, I thought it might be interesting to challenge myself against AI. Sort of like a modern-day Paul Bunyon competition. I decided to prompt AI and have it write a short story of Western fiction and I’d write my own short story of Western fiction roughly the same in length. I’ll share it with you and see what you think. Can you spot the difference? Which one is better? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Now that you know the challenge, here are the short stories. One written by AI, and one written by me. The only editing I did on the AI story was to change the formatting to make both stories look the same. None of the words, grammar, or ideas in the AI story have been changed. I also flipped a coin to see which one I would post first. Here they are. Good luck!
Story 1 - Dust and Redemption
The sun hung low on the horizon as Marshal James O’Malley rode into Redwood Creek. His horse, a sturdy chestnut mare named Belle, kicked up a cloud of dust behind them. James squinted against the glare, his worn leather duster flapping in the hot Wyoming breeze. He’d been riding for days, chasing a past that haunted him like a ghost in the night.
Redwood Creek appeared on the horizon like a mirage—a collection of weather-beaten buildings clustered around a dry creek bed. The town was small, barely a blip on the map, but James hoped it would be far enough from his demons to find some semblance of peace.
As he rode down the main street, James noticed the wary glances from the townsfolk. They knew trouble when they saw it, and trouble had a way of finding James wherever he went. He didn’t blame them for their wariness. A man with a haunted look and a Colt .45 strapped to his hip wasn’t the kind of company anyone welcomed with open arms.
James dismounted outside the Sheriff’s office, the only building in town with a hint of law about it. The sign above the door creaked in the wind, barely readable after years of neglect. He tied Belle to the hitching post and stepped inside, the wooden floorboards groaning under his boots.
The office was small and dimly lit, the smell of stale tobacco hanging in the air. A man sat slouched behind the desk, his hat pulled low over his eyes. He looked up as James entered, sizing him up with a practiced eye.
“Marshal James O’Malley,” James introduced himself, his voice rough from days on the trail. “I’m here to lend a hand, if you’ll have me.”
The Sheriff—Frank Reynolds, as he introduced himself—eyed James suspiciously. “We ain’t got much use for lawmen around here,” he grunted. “Folks tend to settle their own scores.”
James nodded, understanding the sentiment. “I’m not here to stir up trouble,” he assured Frank. “Just looking for a place to rest my hat for a while.”
Frank studied him for a moment longer, then nodded curtly. “Well, you ain’t the first drifter to pass through these parts,” he said. “Long as you don’t cause any trouble, we’ll get along just fine.”
With that, James became the reluctant guardian of Redwood Creek—a town where lawlessness reigned and justice was as scarce as water in the desert.
———
Days turned into weeks as James settled into his role as Marshal. He spent his mornings patrolling the town, his afternoons listening to the grievances of the townsfolk, and his nights nursing a bottle of whiskey in the dimly lit saloon.
Redwood Creek was a town on edge—a powder keg waiting for a spark to set it off. The man responsible for keeping the peace—or what passed for it—was Silas McCreedy, a cattle baron whose influence stretched from one end of Wyoming to the other.
McCreedy was a man with a reputation as black as the coal that fueled the steam engines rumbling through town. He had a gang of hired guns at his disposal—men who would sooner shoot a man dead than look at him twice.
James knew trouble brewed beneath the surface of Redwood Creek like a storm cloud on the horizon. He’d seen the signs—the bruises on a farmer’s face, the fear in a shopkeeper’s eyes. McCreedy’s grip on the town tightened with each passing day, squeezing the life out of it like a python strangling its prey.
But James wasn’t one to turn a blind eye to injustice, no matter how daunting the odds. He’d seen enough bloodshed in his lifetime to know that sometimes, a man had to stand up and fight—or risk losing his soul to the darkness forever.
———
It was a hot afternoon when James first crossed paths with Sarah Carter. She was a widow, her hair the color of sun-kissed wheat and her eyes the color of the Wyoming sky. She ran the general store on the outskirts of town, her hands calloused from years of hard work.
James had stopped by to pick up supplies—beans, bacon, a bottle of whiskey to keep the ghosts at bay. Sarah greeted him with a smile that warmed him from the inside out, a rare ray of sunshine in the dusty wilderness.
“Marshal,” she said, her voice as sweet as honey. “What can I do for you today?”
James tipped his hat politely, a gesture that felt foreign after so many years on the run. “Just passing through,” he replied, his voice gruff. “Thought I’d stock up before I hit the trail again.”
Sarah studied him for a moment, her gaze steady. “You planning on leaving Redwood Creek?” she asked quietly.
James hesitated, surprised by the question. “I don’t rightly know,” he admitted. “Guess it depends on whether there’s anything worth staying for.”
Sarah nodded, her expression unreadable. “There’s always something worth staying for,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving his.
As weeks turned into months, James found himself drawn to Sarah like a moth to a flame. They spent their evenings sitting on the porch of her modest cabin, watching the sun set behind the distant mountains. They talked about everything and nothing—the weather, the price of cattle, the future of Redwood Creek.
Sarah was a woman with a quiet strength, a survivor in a world that favored the strong and crushed the weak. She spoke of her late husband, a good man who had died too young, leaving her to fend for herself in a harsh and unforgiving land.
James listened, his heart heavy with guilt and longing. He’d lost someone too—a woman with eyes as blue as the Wyoming sky and a laugh that could light up a room. He’d failed her, just as he’d failed so many others in his reckless pursuit of justice.
But Sarah didn’t judge him for his past. She saw the man he was now—a man with a heart as big as the prairie and a soul as deep as the mines that scarred the earth. She made him believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for redemption after all.
———
The turning point came on a sweltering afternoon in late summer. James was patrolling the outskirts of town, his thoughts a million miles away. He rounded a bend in the road and stumbled upon a group of McCreedy’s men terrorizing a young homesteader named Sam Watkins.
Sam was a good kid—a hard worker with dreams of making a better life for himself and his Ma. But McCreedy’s men didn’t care about dreams or aspirations. They saw Sam as a threat—a symbol of everything they despised about the homesteaders who dared to carve out a living on land they considered theirs by birthright.
James watched in silence as the men roughed up Sam, their laughter echoing like thunder in the stillness of the afternoon. His hand twitched toward the Colt .45 at his hip, the weight of it familiar and comforting. He’d seen enough bloodshed in his lifetime to know that sometimes, a man had to take a stand—or risk losing his soul to the darkness forever.
Without a second thought, James stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “That’s enough,” he said, his words cutting through the air like a knife. “Let the boy go.”
The men turned, their faces a mask of surprise and fury. They recognized James—the haunted look in his eyes, the Colt .45 that never left his side. But they weren’t about to back down—not without a fight.
The ensuing gunfight was over in a matter of minutes, but the echoes of it lingered in the air like the tolling of a funeral bell. James stood in the dust, his heart pounding in his chest and his hands shaking with adrenaline. McCreedy’s men lay scattered on the ground, their guns still smoking in the afternoon sun.
Sam Watkins stared at James in awe, his face pale but his eyes shining with gratitude. “Marshal,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
James holstered his gun with a weary sigh, the weight of it heavier than ever. “Just doing my job,” he muttered, his voice rough.
But deep down, he knew it was more than that. For the first time in years, James felt something stir inside him—a glimmer of hope, a flicker of redemption. Maybe he couldn’t change the past, but he could damn well try to make a difference in the present.
Word of the showdown spread like wildfire through Redwood Creek. The townsfolk spoke of James in hushed tones, their fear mingled with a newfound sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to reclaim their town from McCreedy’s iron grip—to stand up and fight for the future they deserved.
But McCreedy wasn’t about to give up without a fight. He saw James as a threat—a thorn in his side that needed to be plucked before it could draw blood. He sent his men to intimidate, to threaten, to strike fear into the hearts of those who dared to defy him.
But James wasn’t alone in his fight. He had Sarah by his side—a woman with a heart as brave as the pioneers who had settled the West. Together, they rallied the townsfolk, forging alliances and planting seeds of resistance in the fertile soil of hope.
———
The final showdown came on a chilly autumn morning, the air crisp with the promise of winter on the horizon. James stood at the edge of town, his hands steady and his gaze unwavering. McCreedy and his men rode in like a storm cloud, their faces twisted with hatred and greed.
“You think you can take us down, O’Malley?” McCreedy sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “You’re nothing but a broken-down lawman with a death wish.”
James met McCreedy’s gaze without flinching, his jaw set with determination. “Maybe so,” he replied quietly. “But I’m not the one hiding behind hired guns and stolen dreams.”
The gunfight that followed was a blur of smoke and thunder, bullets whizzing through the air like angry hornets. James fought with a fierceness born of desperation—a man who had seen too much bloodshed to turn back now. Beside him, Sarah fired her Winchester with deadly accuracy, her face a mask of determination.
———
When the dust finally settled, Redwood Creek was forever changed. McCreedy and his men lay scattered on the ground, their reign of terror brought to an abrupt and violent end. The townsfolk emerged from their hiding places, their faces a mix of relief and disbelief.
James stood in the wreckage of the battle, his heart heavy but his soul lighter than it had been in years. He’d lost friends in the fight—good men and women who had believed in a better future for Redwood Creek. But their sacrifices had not been in vain.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the town, James turned to Sarah with a weary smile. “It’s over,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion.
Sarah nodded, her eyes shining with pride. “You did it, James,” she replied softly. “You saved us.”
James shook his head, his gaze distant. “No,” he murmured. “We saved each other.”
And as they stood together in the fading light, surrounded by the ruins of a town reborn, James knew that he had finally found the redemption he had been searching for—the chance to lay down his past and embrace a future worth fighting for.
———
In the weeks that followed, Redwood Creek began to rebuild. The scars of the past were still visible—the bullet-riddled buildings, the broken dreams—but the spirit of the town was stronger than ever.
James O’Malley stayed on as Marshal, his name whispered with respect and admiration. He and Sarah rebuilt her cabin on the outskirts of town, their hands working side by side to create a future they could both believe in.
As for Silas McCreedy, his name became a cautionary tale—a reminder that even the most powerful men could fall when faced with courage and determination. His empire crumbled, his influence fading like smoke on the wind.
But for James and Sarah, the battle was far from over. They knew that peace was a fragile thing—a gift to be cherished and protected with every breath they took.
And as they watched the sun set over the Wyoming plains, casting long shadows across the land they had fought so hard to save, James O’Malley knew that he had finally found his place in the world—a man with a past, but also a future.
Story 2 - A Hard Ride
Dawn found Walks in the Sky watching the flames of his campfire. Tongues of red, yellow, and orange licked the scorched kettle as he waited for his coffee to boil. The methodical dance of the flames matched the anxious thoughts rolling in his mind. From the outside, he looked at peace. Inside, however, he couldn’t rid his thoughts of the burning question.
“What if the stories are true?”
It was a question that had troubled Walks in the Sky for many moons. Ice was on the rivers when he had first heard the stories. Now, the chokecherries were deep crimson. Instead of traveling, he should have been hunting buffalo to store meat for the winter. He knew too well the pain hunger could bring. Like the wolf, it could sink its teeth into a village and take hold until the old and weak had no choice but to surrender.
Although he understood the importance of making meat, it was also important he made this journey. He had to see for himself. Walks in the Sky knew that a distracted man lost his power. His mind would be in one place while his body was in another.
He would not live like that.
One night several sleeps ago, after the stories were discussed around a campfire, he decided he would go to see for himself. After he had seen, he would know. After he knew, he would settle the thoughts that tumbled through his mind like creek water over the rocks. His mind and his body would once again be together.
The snap of the campfire brought his attention back to his kettle. He heard the gentle simmering sound that told him the coffee would soon be ready. Reaching into his small bag of belongings, he extracted the dingy and dented tin cup he had brought and some strips of dried meat. Biting down, he tore off a mouthful of buffalo meat. Slowly, he mashed it between his teeth. As the dry meat moistened, it released the strong flavor he had become so familiar with. It was good for a man to eat the buffalo. But, if the stories were true, how much longer would it last?
———
By mid-morning, Walks in the Sky was riding his paint horse through the sagebrush hills. Aside from the scrape of the horse’s hooves on the rocks, there was no sound but the gentle drone of the wind. Across his lap rocked his rifle. It was a good gun that he had traded for several summers ago. It was his first rifle, and he liked it.
As a boy, he had learned to shoot the bow and arrow. Growing up, he and his friends had spent many mornings shooting cactus and buffalo chips they rolled across the ground for each other. Like most boys, eventually Walks in the Sky developed to where he could hit his target with most shots. They also played Game of the Arrow. The game was to see who could get the most arrows into the air at one time. It was a great test that even the grown men of the village would challenge each other to. As Walks in the Sky grew, he became the best of all the boys with his bow. He had been taught how important the bow was to The People’s way of life, and he was proud his skill earned the approval of the elders.
When the time came, he shot his first deer with a bow and his first buffalo, too. Still, he remembered the power that ran through him as he approached those first few kills. As a young man looking to prove himself as a hunter, there was no finer feeling.
In a short time, Walks in the Sky earned a reputation as one of The People’s most adept hunters. Even in his youth, he had mastered all of the required skills. He could spot animals others could not see. Once they were spotted, he stalked them with the same stealth as the cougar. Softly, his steps could close the gap between him and his prey. Still, he knew that getting close wasn’t the most difficult part. Getting in close and then making a good shot was the hardest thing a hunter had to do. Some of the young men let their nerves overtake them at close range. As the pressure built, their concentration crumbled and they made mistakes.
Not Walks in the Sky.
Instead, his medicine grew stronger the closer he stalked. He knew how to stay in control. Closer and closer he could creep undetected. Each step was carefully placed. Each breath was steady and controlled. Once the distance was closed, then came the shot. Sometimes the deer would lie still. Other times, he was so close it was impossible not to attract the animal’s attention. Suddenly, the deer would leap from its bed and be running in a single motion. In those moments, all the arrows he had shot as a boy became the arrow on his bow. Time slowed down, and he didn’t even realize when his fingers released the rawhide string. His feathered arrow arced through space. It flew not at the deer, but flew instead to where the deer was going to be. Sure enough, the arrow would strike its mark and pierce the deer as it bound away. On a clean shot, Walks in the Sky could see the animal fall. Other times, he would have to track the animal by the drops of blood it left. More times than not, he soon found his prey. The meat from those first few deer had been the sweetest he had ever tasted.
With time, Walks in the Sky’s abilities as a hunter had become known to all The People. Even as a young man, he was leading hunting parties with great success. His prowess grew as he aged, and he became rich in hides, furs, and horses. One day he took many hides and furs to the fort of the Americans. There he traded for a weapon befitting a hunter like himself. It was one of the rifles he had seen the white trappers carry. Although heavy and loud, Walks in the Sky knew what a rifle could do. With one of these, he could feed The People and none would go hungry in the cold moons.
With that rifle in his hands, Walks in the Sky had done much hunting. In addition to his own tipi, he filled with meat the tipis of the old women whose men had gone to the next life. He brought hides that others could use to make tipi covers, moccasins, or other necessary articles. With that rifle, Walks in the Sky had brought much to his village.
There was one thing that bothered him, though. It stuck in his mind as he rode alone over the rocky hills. It was the thought of his son and the boy’s friends. They didn’t play with arrows the way Walks in the Sky had. Instead, they played with sticks that were guns. Instead of quiet arrows whispering toward a rolling buffalo chip, the boys chased each other and made sounds to mimic the loud explosion of the rifle.
“Boom!” they would shout with a laugh.
In his heart, Walks in the Sky wondered if those boys would ever know the power of the bow. Would they understand the power a man must master to creep close to the deer and shoot the arrow? Or, would they only know the smoke and kick of the gun?
That, in part, was what he was riding toward.
———
That evening Walks in the Sky knew he must be getting close. Stories said he must travel 15 sleeps from The People’s lands. It had been 14 since he departed. Tossing sticks into his fire, Walks in the Sky mulled over the same thoughts. In the past, his life had not been filled with this sort of worry. Before, when rumors circulated of enemies prowling The People’s lands, he had mustered a war party and attacked. Although the danger was great, his thoughts did not stalk him in this way. Things happened quickly and were over. That was the way of life. This was a different enemy entirely. It was one he could not crush with his war club. He wondered what he would do. How would he lead his people?
Soon he would know.
———
It was two more sleeps before Walks in the Sky found what he was looking for. His first impression, however, was not what he expected. This deep in a strange land, he had been careful to avoid riding on top of the hills. Skirting around the top of one hill, he made his way around when he saw something in the distance. Pulling his pony to a stop, he examined the curious thing.
It reminded him of a small path, yet this path ran perfectly straight and looked black. Walks in the Sky monitored it for several minutes. Nothing seemed out of place. The breeze blew light. The birds chirped. The world was as it should be. There were no people. Just the black path cutting the prairie.
Walks in the Sky had ridden far to see this, but he was in no hurry now. It was the patience of the hunter. Dismounting, he continued to study the path from the hillside. From that vantage point, the scene looked harmless. After a long watch, he determined there were no people around. It was safe to ride for a closer look.
Riding off the hill, he struggled with his thoughts. Why had he let himself worry over such a small thing? Even as he approached, he felt no special fear over what he saw.
It was indeed a path. It was a path of rocks and wood with two iron rails. Were the iron rails for guiding people? Walks in the Sky wondered why a person would need the rails to guide them down the path. If they could not see the path, the person should not be traveling. It was also not made well for walking or riding. Almost disappointed, he shook his head. Was this what he had ridden all this way to see?
Unable to accept the idea that this path was all there was, he turned and followed it for a distance. At first, he tried to ride on the path, but the wood was too clumsy for his horse to walk on. Instead, he rode alongside it. Still keeping his eyes open for strangers, he studied the path. He knew stories could grow as they were told, but this was absurd. Walks in the Sky was rarely fooled. He knew better than to believe in such fantastic stories. How had he let himself be tricked?
Then, somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard something. Pulling his pony to a stop, he listened closely. It was hard to tell. Even the gentle breeze drown it out. But, yet, he was sure he heard something.
Yes. He was sure of it. There was a herd of buffalo running somewhere not far from him. Oddly enough, he did not see the dust that a large herd would send into the sky. Instead, there was a single black cloud rising high into the blue sky. Was the prairie on fire? Walks in the Sky titled his head in curiosity. He had seen enough fires to know this would have been a small fire. Perhaps it was making the buffalo run.
As Walks in the Sky continued toward the smoke, the sound continued. Then, as far as he could see in the distance, he saw something mysterious. It traveled on the path and blew the black smoke into the sky. Rather than a herd of buffalo, the rumbling seemed to be coming from it. As he watched, he had bad feeling come over him. It started in his stomach and spread to the rest of his body. It traveled the strange path and was coming straight toward him.
For the first time, Walks in the Sky realized the stories could be true.
Not wanting to be seen, Walks in the Sky turned his pony toward the hills. Riding at a walk, he searched for a place to conceal himself. Glancing back toward the strange object, he was surprised to see how much closer it had gotten. Surely such a strange object could not run like a good pony. Yet, that appeared to be what it was doing. He kicked his pony faster and ran for the hills, hoping to somehow screen himself before the object reached his location. With an anxiety that was not usual for him, Walks in the Sky ran the paint into a ravine where some rocks had formed a small cliff above a dry creek bed that snaked back into the hills. He hurriedly rode around the small bend before sliding off and dismounting. Slyly, he crept back toward the small cliff, using the rocks to conceal him. The next several minutes sent an unnerving mix of emotions through him.
As the object got closer, Walks in the Sky knew for certain it was the source of the rumbling. He also began to see it was not one object, but several following in a line. They looked like the log houses the bearded Americans lived in. Walks in the Sky had seen those houses and knew they stayed in one place. These houses moved along the black path of iron.
Closer and closer the mysterious column advanced until it was soon within a long rifle shot. It was then that the reality of the stories began to sink into Walks in the Sky.
The large structures moved along the path, seeming to be pulled by the one that made the black smoke. The low rumble became louder and louder, until its thundering vibrated his insides. With surprising speed and smoothness, the line of objects moved along the path. As it rumbled past him, Walks in the Sky realized there were holes in the houses. Astonishment struck him when he saw people through those holes. Not just a few people. Many people. A whole village of people appeared to be in those houses. And they moved at the speed of a loping pony. How could a village of people move so fast?
In mere moments the entire oddity rolled past him, the rumbling sound slowly fading as it departed. Walks in the Sky was left hiding behind the rocks, contemplating what he had just seen. The stories had been true. The great thundering wagons did indeed prowl the path. Instead of finding the answers he sought, Walks in the Sky was left with more questions. Where did the thundering wagons come from? Where did they go? He had heard other stories from the bearded men of large villages in far-off lands. Villages, they said, where people lived in tall houses and glowed in the night. Walks in the Sky had never taken the time to believe those stories. He had chosen to hunt, fight, and provide for his people. Now, the strange moving wagons had come. What did that mean for The People?
———
That night, Walks in the Sky had many thoughts. He had hoped that seeing the smoking wagons would calm his anxious mind. Instead, new thoughts swirled within him. As a young boy, he had shot the bow, hunted the deer, and learned to fight. Those were the things that a man needed to know. It was a good way to live. Now these smoking wagons rolled across the grass. They moved with the power and speed of a buffalo herd, yet in perfect smoothness. Not only that, but they carried villages of people all at a time. Walks in the Sky felt as if he knew less than he did when he set out on this journey, but now he felt as if he knew one thing for certain.
Life for his people would be different from this moment onward.
I hope you enjoyed this challenge. Feel free to contact me with your thoughts or ideas. I’ll include the answer to the challenge in the August newsletter. Be sure to sign up if you haven’t already! Keep it simple, and keep it real, friends.
