Category: Storyteller

The site storyteller.

AI is fast becoming the spawn of Satan. Doomsday predictions and massive job losses are entwined with daily stories of singers unable to perform and the shortage of cucumbers to name but a few. More recently, the ability of AI to create biological weapons would surely also mean the ability to create cures.

What if AI could be used to enhance images? Not just a favourite holiday snap or reduce the facial lines from time spent, but to really enhance them to the point that a single image could be used to see a snapshot of everything for miles around.

Are the authorities currently archiving high-resolution images ready for that day? Imagine, a single photo, with other images reflected on windows, car doors, even in the eyes of people within the frame, all holding images of what’s around them.

With the right processing power, an archive could be searched giving a timeline of activity within a property miles away from the original photo. A point-in-time system would be a great enhancement to the law enforcement agencies able to retrace to the moment of an incident and follow a suspect’s steps, either prior to, or after the event.

Suppose you needed answers? Imagine your situation was dire and the only way to resolve it would be to search an area from an image taken at the time? You would need help. You would need to trust that person. After all, everyone would want that technology. Pick up a copy of Summers and Winters by William Soppitt and become a seasoned reader.

They waved while caught on threads, attached thinly to their host. A thousand shades of green. Some gazed upon the ground below, watching and waiting for the fall. Each unique despite the multitude of siblings that moved and swayed with the air and with the beating song.

Speech was impossible and what they ate was absorbed over each moment of life. They grew and they waited. Connected. They waited for freedom, knowing the difference between the here and now and the joy to come.

When the time was right, when the Foille were released from their bindings by a whisper strong, they quietly made their way down toward the solid dark line that forever snaked the landscape. Each waited. Each growing old while they clung to the wet, dark line. Their master stood bare. Spindly arms clung to a few Foille, unsure and unwilling to follow to the line.

When the large beast came, the Foille readied themselves. Four dark and thunderous limbs clung to the line as it carried a body of colour with eyes that shone and cut through the bleakness of darkness and rain.

The beast lifted them as it briefly towered above and the Foille felt elated. Each one flung into the air, spiralling and dancing, their movements free. They guided themselves back to the long dark line ready for the next beast. This was their joyful life carried upon the briefest of moments. Awakened by the moments of freedom.

In the blink of an eye.

The child stood motionless. Ten years growth. Mentally wounded, body pitted and bloodied. His skin exposed to the light, to the shade, to the elements that owned the space he occupied. Sound was no more.

Storyteller vs Writer. A personal view.

Not all storytellers are writers.

Let’s start by asking some questions. Does writing a story make you a writer? Is a writer a cog in a machine or can a writer be singular?

This is me!

William Soppitt, author of Unknown Object and Vermilion Cloud