Foo's Bulletin Board -- 1600 Words FINAL

Okay, GPT says this version is ready, and I agree. I need to go back and fix the 800-word version now, but I'll just do that on my portfolio blog. GPT keeps trying to get me to submit to literary magazines that don't accept work that has any AI DNA on it. So, I'm just going to use this as-intended, with a disclaimer on my Fiverr gig that I use AI to help me brainstorm and edit. 

I'm not ashamed that I use AI, at least not creatively. I know which parts are from my brain, and they're usually the best parts (although it's really funny when GPT compliments a part that it came up with as MY genius), but I just have zero confidence in how to fix what's not working. And how to pinpoint what works and what doesn't. 

I learned to draw using fashion templates -- that's where I got my general sense of anatomy from. I don't really look at the stuff I drew with other peoples' templates as my own work, I think if it more as collaborations. And I see the stuff I write with AI as collaboration, too.

And yes, one one hand, it's gross that this tool is built off of the intellectual and creative labor of those people who were not compensated or credited for that work. On the other hand, it is kind of beautiful to have access to the collective creativity of all of the best writers of all time. If we weren't operating under capitalism, AI would just be the biggest collaboration of artists and writers of all time. It would be a miracle.

And, honestly, with how little time I have left on this planet, and how little time this planet has left with humanity, it's hard to feel guilty that I am able to use this miracle as a tool for my own writing. Frankly, I'm shocked that it's available for free. GPT keeps trying to get me to upgrade, but the version I use is free and it's about as close to magic as a magic-less world can get.

All that said, maybe I'm delusional about the quality of the results I get. Maybe I only get better results with GPT because my results without it are, for lack of a better word, bad. It's hard to say. I'm too close to it. But, history won't be the judge because we have no future. So, I'm going to chase the dopamine that I get from engaging my creative brain and try to drown out all of gag-inducing self-doubt that tries to flood all of the seratonin out of my system.

Enjoy!

High on the mountain’s shoulder, the brass-domed observatory kept watch over the village of Willowwink, its curved panels glinting like a half-peeled moon. Inside, gears ticked in steady counterpoint to the hush of the great telescope, and the enchanted star maps glimmered faintly.

Foo stood on a brass balcony inside the dome, peering through the small spotting scope. “Clouds gathering near the western ridge. Light frost by dawn — nothing troublesome. Should burn off by noon.” She jotted the note down.

Mentor leaned against the railing, his back to her. “Very good, Foo. And the river fields?”

Foo tapped her weather chart, which chimed gently. “With the moon waning and the north wind steady, the soil will stay damp enough for sowing greens and grains, but too wet to lift potatoes or cut the wheat.” She sketched a crescent moon and a frost symbol. 

Mentor looked around the observatory. Every chart was sorted, every lantern lit, every lens polished. “Are we already finished?” he asked. It wasn't even midnight. 

Foo continued scribbling. “You've taught me well.”

For Mentor, something clicked. After a moment, he walked over and nudged her elbow. “Ask me.”

Foo stopped writing and rolled her eyes. "Mentor –"

"Ask," he instructed.

Foo sighed, going back to her notes. "What is the meaning of life?" she asked, the question routine, the answer always different, and never quite right.

He smiled. He had it this time. "Not to only observe, but to experience."

Foo looked up, uncomfortable with a truth that reverberated in her bones. "Huh."

“Ah," he said, her reaction confirming what he already knew. "At last, I’ve earned my promotion. I am now named Guru. And as my promotion means yours, congratulations, Head Astronomer!”

Guru'd spoken of ascending for years — but Foo was still flummoxed. “Tonight?”

“The stars rarely consider our human timelines,” he said, with a laugh. "I expected this years ago, and you, I suspect," he said squeezing her shoulder. “Thought it would never happen." 

He laughed at her blush and drifted toward the storage alcove where his belongings were tucked neatly into a traveling satchel. 

Later that night, as Foo descended from the observatory, she turned, briefly, to watch Guru ascend, growing smaller and smaller as he floated away. She felt lost. Not sad, just bereft. As if a third arm had just decided to detach itself, in order to follow its own destiny. Above, the sky glittered, a deep river of silver constellations sliding overhead. She turned back toward Willowwink,

The village unfolded beneath her, roofs huddled together in soft colors, chimneys dark and still. The air carried the lingering scent of fresh bread and the metallic tang of cooling iron from the blacksmith’s yard. 

She crossed the square. The fountain was ridiculously elaborate for a village this small. It featured a statue — a woman, who turned her back as Foo approached. Foo, accustomed to the stone woman's shyness, didn't take it personally. 

The sandwich board stood near the fountain, its wood polished smooth by years of weather and Foo's monthly care. She replaced the previous night’s weather prediction, rolling it neatly for archiving. She pinned the fresh page in its place. On the other side, she exchanged stale horoscopes for fresh ones.

Before leaving, she took out a third note. It read: “Seeking Astronomy Apprentice: Experience unnecessary; curiosity required. Reply if interested.” She pinned it with a star-shaped earring whose twin had vanished long ago. She often wondered if anyone read the notices she posted on Guru's board — her board now. If anyone responded to her note, she supposed, she'd have her answer.

Unbeknownst to Foo, Prince Gorl visited Willowwink daily; its observatory was the only one in his kingdom, and he used her information to keep his realm running smoothly. He liked to travel disguised as a frog — people demanded more of a prince — but when he read Foo's request, he resumed his human form long enough to reply with his own question.

That evening, Foo returned and found a reply pinned with a tiny crown-shaped tack. It read: “Would you accept a humble frog?”

The next morning, Gorl found that his question had been answered with a question. He laughed, transforming long enough to reply: “Frogs can’t give you warts. You’re thinking of toads.”

When Foo read the frog's reply, she was relieved, but embarrassed. She was proud of her knowledge of astronomy, astrology, and weather, but was fully aware of her ignorance in almost every other arena. She hoped that she'd learn as much from her new apprentice as he'd learn from her.

A couple of weeks later, the great telescope hummed softly as Foo adjusted the eyepiece, tracing faint stars along the ridges. Beside her, Gorl crouched on the desk, using the modified lettering armature to transcribe that evening's board update from Foo's observations.

Foo sat up straight and stretched. "I don't even know if anyone reads these things," she murmured.

The scratching of ink on paper came to an abrupt halt as Gorl stopped manipulating the armature. "Are you jesting?" he asked.

Foo looked over at him. "Well, I know that you do — or at least happened to —"

“Foo, the entire village reads your board every day,” Gorl interrupted, hopping in agitation. “Even I -” He stopped, staring at her. “Foo…do you really not know?”

A little alarmed by Gorl's passion, Foo fumbled with the telescope, feeling self-conscious. It was like everyone in the village had been reading her soul for years, but she had no sense of theirs.

She realized she didn’t know anything about Gorl, either. She had known Guru her whole life — she had never had to get to know anyone before.

She frowned. How did one go about that? She searched for a question. Something personal, but not too personal. “So… ‘Gorl,’ huh? Were you named after the prince?”

Gorl was still staring at her. He blushed, his tiny webbed toes curling slightly. "Um. Yes." He closed his eyes and his whole body shook. "But wait, you're changing the subject. Do you really not know how important your notices are?"

Foo shook her head. "It's not like anyone ever answers back — until you."

Gorl couldn't cock his head, so he cocked his whole body as he thought. "There's not much to say to a notice. I answered a question. Maybe you should leave another one and see if someone answers you."

"I suppose," she said slowly, thinking about it as she spoke. "I have a lot of questions for them. Maybe I could leave one tonight...."

That night, Foo posted her weather and horoscope updates, and left a question. Her fingers trembled as she pinned it with the same star earring that she'd used for the apprentice inquiry.

It read:

'Honored Villagers,

I am Foo, Head Astronomer, and I have a question for those of you with sheep expertise. How do you wear a fresh sheep's wool without getting blood all over you? Or is blood part of the effect? Also, what do you do about the smell? Please forgive my ignorance. I am no fashion expert.

Best Regards,

Foo'

The next morning, so early that even the fountain was still asleep, mist curled along the cobblestones as Bo approached, carrying a shepherd's crook in one hand and a duck named Sally under one arm. 

She stopped at Foo's bulletin board. “Hm. Clear skies tonight," she said. "Frost on the orchard roofs. Lunar arc unusually sharp." 

Sally clucked uninterestedly, as Bo went around to check the horoscopes.

"You're a Libra, right? Ooh, another note — I wonder if the observatory is looking for another apprentice. Oh!" She cried. "It's not a notice, it's a question about sheep!" She read the note and laughed. "Goodness gracious, imagine wearing a sheep's actual flesh as clothing." She plucked a feather from Sally’s flank.

Sally squawked and leapt from her arms. “Hey! Rude!” She flapped angrily toward the fountain. “That’s the last time I ask you for a ride to the village….”

“I’m sorry,” Bo called after her. She winced. She should have asked. She’d just been so excited to reply. No one ever asked her about sheep, and she knew so much. She pulled out a small whittling knife and sharpened the feather. Then she looked around. Ink… There — a mud puddle. Perfect. She dipped her pen into it. 

Foo had left space at the bottom of the page for a reply, so Bo wrote:

'Honored Astronomer Foo,

I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. We don’t wear sheep. We shear them — just wool, no skin. If blood is involved, you’re doing something wrong.

If you ever wish to see how it’s done, you’re welcome to visit the lower pasture at first light. The flock is calm this time of year, and I make a decent pot of tea.

Respectfully,

Bo

Shepherdess of the Western Hill'

She stepped back and read her reply. Sally had woken the statue and was squawking about her poor treatment. Bo sighed, walking toward the fountain. Sally was going to be impossible on the walk home if Bo didn't apologize, immediately and profusely.

That night, Foo stood before the board, staring at Bo's reply. It was splotched with mud, but the writing was precise, if a bit more elaborate than Foo's own hand. Her gaze lingered on one phrase: "...you’re welcome to visit...".

The observatory waited above her, quiet and precise. The western hill lay in the opposite direction. After a moment, Foo turned to look thoughtfully toward the western hill.