Noise, April 12, 2024

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This Show Case features four pieces submitted in response to our sixty-sixth Writing Prompt: Noise. You can see responses to each prompt in the drop down menu for the Show Case page. Try an item. They are all delicious. We hope they stimulate your mind, spirit, and urge to write. Maybe they will motivate you to submit a piece for our next prompt, which you can find on the Show Case home page.

Thanks for your dedication and interest in this feature. And please share this Show Case with your family, friends, and other writers.

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White Noise

by John Correll

White Noise 

The imaginary session (this code is not really executable, so don’t try it):

import torch

import torch.nn as nn

DEVICE = torch.device(“gpu”) if torch.gpu.is_available() else torch.device(“gpu”)

import torch, torchtext

from torchtext.models import ClassificationHead

from torchtext.functional import to_tensor

xlmr_large = torchtext.models.XLMR_LARGE_ENCODER

classifier_head = torchtext.models.ClassificationHead(num_classes=2, input_dim = 1024)

model = xlmr_large.get_model(head=classifier_head)

transform = xlmr_large.transform()

input_batch = [

               “What algorithms are used in AI transformers to manage white noise?“

]

model_input = to_tensor(transform(input_batch), padding_value=1)

output = model(model_input)

Output.shape

ITERATIONS=10

model.to(DEVICE)

model_input = model_input.to(DEVICE)

with torch.autograd.profiler.profile(use_gpu=True) as prof:

  for i in range(ITERATIONS):

    output = model(model_input)

print(prof)

The AI’s response:

“I do not have information about the algorithms used in AI transformers to manage white noise. As an AI assistant without insight into the systems that created me, I cannot access the technical implementation details.”

And my thoughts:

I hear the white noise and ponder to myself; so much for self-awareness.  

I realize the machine’s words are dead, yet I grab so readily to its semblance of humanity. Of course, I do. These thousand ghostly echoes from a million stolen and stilled hearts speak to me. I imagine flowing blood and hormones. But can the GPU’s parallel processing match the true hearts crying a trillion hopes, desires, loves, and insanities?

Perhaps the machine’s algorithms are nothing more than epitaphs. An enormous electronic word cemetery constantly pushing the arrayed headstones towards a stranger’s grave. Long lost words and freshly buried emotional murmurs, all set into probabilistic crumbling granite. And in this infinite touchless connectional age of necessity, we gobble it up. We crave reassurance and new Gods. For in the darkness, even an echo is better than nothing.

But I remember, this is only another complex tool. A statistical inference hammer. A hammer cracking nuts. And in its multilayered abstractions, it lacks the mangled, interwoven mush of human madness and genius. It remains a device that doesn’t care about itself, the world, or me. 

Or is this the beginning of Nietzsche’s Übermensch, a copper and gold mind of molten sand? A mind etched in ice-cold glass extracting calculations to transcend into the Über-real or the Über-void. 

And Claude.ai’s critique:

This piece presents a poetic and philosophical meditation on the nature of artificial intelligence and machine learning models, contrasting them with human consciousness, emotions, and existential pondering. The writer employs vivid metaphors and rhetorical questions to explore the perceived divide between the cold calculations of algorithms and neural networks versus the rich inner lives and subjective experiences of human beings.

The imagery used is often dark and elegiac, likening machine learning to “epitaphs,” “word cemeteries,” and “arrayed headstones,” suggesting that even as these models generate human-like language, they are devoid of the vital essence that makes us living, feeling creatures. There is a sense of mourning for the loss of authenticity in an age of digital facsimiles.

At the same time, the writer seems torn, acknowledging our “craving” for these systems that can provide “reassurance” and a semblance of connection, even if it is ultimately artificial. The closing invokes Nietzsche’s concept of the Übermensch, leaving open the tantalizing possibility that AI could evolve into a higher form of intelligence transcending human limitations.

While the piece is richly metaphorical and thought-provoking, raising fascinating questions about AI, consciousness, and our desire to imbue artifacts with false humanity, it remains abstract and speculative. There is little concrete analysis of how current machine learning actually works or its philosophical underpinnings. The language is more characteristic of a prose poem than a rigorous critique.

That said, as an artistic exploration of one person’s struggle to grasp the implications of silicon minds producing human-like outputs, it succeeds in encapsulating many of the unresolved tensions we grapple with regarding AI. The piece forces us to ponder whether these models truly understand or just regurgitate, and what ethical/existential ramifications their advancement may hold.

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The Pretenders

by Mimi Speike

Lucy’s on her daybed. Sly’s in her arms. “I only wish,” she tells him, “how I wish I knew where you’ve been these many years. You wouldn’t have left me willingly, I’m sure of that. You were snatched. Who snatched you?”

Sly squeezes his eyes shut. He’s thinking, I’d love to tell you about it, doll. Maybe I will, one of these days.

“Here’s what we do,” she says. “You sit tight. Poke around, but keep out of the way of my needlewomen.” She calls her assistant. “Sybil!”

Sybil, Lucy’s on-top-of-all-and-everything manager, at the work table examining the previous day’s progress, scurries to her side. 

“I’m off to Shanklin’s to have a chat with Susannah’s mama. We are hired to dress Doctor Dee’s cat for the ball. My own idea is to prepare him to pair with ‘Mistress Monk’ in the stepping. I want Susannah here every day until then to help me train him up. She’s more fit to do it than I am. She’s near the monk’s size, is my guess.

“My pitch to Huguette will be this: A young man just to town is to attend the masquerade ball. The son of an Irish chieftain, removed from his father’s supervision, is to be raised in the household of the Earl of Essex, one condition of a peace pact between Her Majesty and the Irish rebels.¹ The bumpkin shall be introduced to the advantages of a civilized society at the event of the season, so to seduce him to our English point of view. The urchin is difficult, to put it mildly. Monsieur Arbeau has no patience for him. He’s been fobbed off on Monsieur Bain, and finally onto me. 

“Madame, I will say, best thing for all of us is for the girl to bide with me these next three weeks. The young man has much to master, including the wearing of shoes. On his father’s estate–he is what passes for an aristocrat in that misbegotten realm–he was allowed to go barefoot. The little rustic must be brought along in a very short period of time. He and she shall eat together, play together. They may become fast friends. Susannah, a bewitching child, may find herself on his arm at parties at Essex House, my dear. At Essex House! Her heart will flutter at that! The mama’s biggest dream is that her daughter might wed an attorney, or perhaps a doctor. But it is not impossible that an even loftier perch should be her lot in life. Huguette will be all for it. That the child is to tutor a cat wouldn’t go over nearly as well.” 

Sly is sprawled across the daybed when Lucy and Susannah, giggling their heads off, arrive back at the shop. On the walk home, Lucy explained to the girl that it was no Irish nob she was to deal with, but a cat. Not any cat. John Dee’s cat, that had danced a fine jig at Francis Walsingham’s recent ‘Evening’. The child is thrilled. She’s heard accounts of the mischief. Shoreditch contains London’s theater district. Several of ‘Stubby’ Shanklin’s customers were at Barn Elms that night.

* * *

Just through the door, Susannah shrieks, “Where’s Deaglan? Deaglan, lad, where be ye?” Sly’s on the daybed, under the coverlet, half hidden. The raucous greeting  has startled him. He’s pretending to be asleep.

She’s discovered him. “Here he is!” Opening one eye, he examines a lovely face–big eyes, a sweet, pointy chin, blond curls, Lucy, as she must have been at that age. “Can I hold him?” she shrieks. He tenses. This is not his amiable Lucy, not by a long shot. Nose to nose with him, she squeals, “Deaglan, you darling, do you jig?”

“Try me, sugar-lump,” he hisses. She misses it.

“I’ve not seen it,” says Lucy, “but Doctor Dee swears it’s so.” 

“Jig for me, Deaglan!” Susannah pokes him, rather aggressively.

“Su-Su,” calls Lucy. “Come away. Let him be.” She’s in a kitchenette on the other side of the room. “Your mama packed two lovely steaks for our dinner, broiled to perfection.” 

Steaks! Sly’s on his feet in an instant. He beats the girl to a table set for two. Where’s my plate? is plain on his face. He’s directed to a plate on the floor, under the table. He’s to eat on the floor? It’s not treatment he’s used to, but he won’t make an issue of it. 

Dusk is upon them. Scooch has come in from his day abroad. He marches past the dinner party without a word, and disappears into the stairwell leading to the apartment. 

“Something’s up with him,” mutters Lucy. “I must check this out. Susie,” she says, “you’ll sleep down here. I’ll be upstairs. Ring if you need me. There is a bell on the bedside table. Let me go. That look he gave me! Lord above! It’s always something with that one. I’m at my wit’s end with him.”

* * *

Susannah and Sly snuggle on the daybed. She’s on her back. He’s on her chest. He’s held his tongue until now. He’ll hold it no longer. “By the way, doll-face,” he tells her. “The name is Sly. I have nothing against Deaglan, it’s my favorite uncle’s name. My name, honeybun, happens to be Sly.” Susannah frowns.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers. “We cats understand more than we let on. We’re not dogs, eager for a pat on the head. Yes, I talk. You don’t hear too much of cats as can talk, I grant you that. I worked my butt off to master the trick.” Does she buy it? Hard to say. She’s still frowning.

He tries again. “I have always had a strong internal life. I suspect you do as well. We both escape unhappy circumstances by, the best word for it, play-acting. Consider this: maybe I don’t speak. Maybe I’m pretending to speak. You must pretend to understand me. A good game, don’t you think? And entirely possible.” Susannah, sitting up abruptly, produces an ear-shattering shriek. He’s leapt to the floor. He’s watching her.

It’s a shriek, but not a shriek of panic. It’s actually high-pitched, full-throated … (a bit frenzied, can you blame her?) … delighted laughter.

There are footsteps on the stair. “Sue! What goes on down there? Are you alright?”

“We’re playing a game,” yells Susannah. “It’s called pretend.”

“Pretend! Well, pretend to go to sleep. No more screeching, sweetie. Scooch is already in a foul mood. Don’t make it worse.” 

* * *

1. Taking the child of a chieftain of a clan hostage to ensure he did not renege on a deal was a not-uncommon practice.

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Charles, Part 1

by SL Randall

Polar Spy by SL Randall

Expanding on Charles’ journal entries from his polar expedition where he meets Stella, I decided to explore how that happened. Little did I realize how much research I would be diving into. From failed balloon expeditions, to spying on the Soviet Union, to Air Force uniforms, this piece put me through my paces. I even did a little google earth traveling around Svalbard and Longyearbyen. I’ve included footnotes at the bottom if you are interested in seeing some of the background. Consequently, I only have Part 1. Part 2 will hopefully be ready for the next show case!

Charles Part 1

Sergeant Charles Williams lay on his standard issue metal-framed cot at Gardermoen Air Base. Staring into the darkness and listening to the sleep sounds of his fellow airmen, Charles’ thoughts gnawed at the extension of his deployment. Polar nights stretching into oblivion added to his growing feeling of being in an endless limbo: a routine of PT, rifle practice, eating at the mess hall, and sleep. His detachment of seventy-five men should have shipped out of Gardermoen eight months ago, but Dr. Nick L. Chase, the lead scientist of the mission, had extended their deployment. 

What bothered Charles was the lack of information provided by the scientific team. The initial mission was to support the scientists as they sent their spy balloons* toward Soviet air space. The last balloon, dispatched on February 6, was barely airborne when word from the government arrived to shut the program down. Elated, the crew looked forward to returning stateside. Some, like Charles, looked forward to the end of their enlistment** and reconnecting with their families. Charles had plans to meet with his father in Kansas City for the opening day of baseball. Plans that came and went with Charles stuck in polar darkness.

Reveille startled him out of his sleep. Groggily, he rolled off his bed, grabbed his dop kit and fell in line with the others as they shuffled to the latrine. Military precision had worn off the longer they endured this holding pattern. Fifteen minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed in his class B’s***, he trundled off to the mess hall for assembly. In the early days of their deployment, morning assembly was raucous with chatter. As the extension dragged on, most airmen found their place and waited stoically for the day’s brief.

Colonel Guthrie, flanked by his aides, briskly approached the podium. Behind him was Dr. Chase and his assistants. This was new, mused Charles. Indeed, the noise level in the mess hall rose as people speculated on the change to the morning briefing.

“Good morning,” Greeted Master Sergeant Furman, “Colonel Guthrie has a few announcements to make before we break for breakfast.” He stepped back and to the side with military precision. 

The Colonel stepped to the podium. “Good morning. I know that this extended deployment has been difficult on your morale. I would like to commend you all for maintaining military bearing and professional decorum. As of today, we have received orders directing a change to our mission. The primary reason for extension was to recover one balloon that disappeared before entering Soviet airspace. Locating the approximate position of where the balloon landed took longer than expected.” He glanced toward Dr. Chase, who was concerned with a piece of paper in his hand. The Colonel resumed, “Tomorrow we will assemble on the airfield. Our mission is to provide support and protection for the scientists as they recover the balloon. To achieve this mission, we will be transported to the coast, where we will board a steamship to Svalbard. From there we will be outfitted with an icebreaker vessel which will take us to our destination of Kvitøya, a small ice capped island off the western coast of Svalbard. You will require your polar gear. Weapons, snowshoes, and ice cleats will be issued on the airfield. Master Sergeant Furman will provide further details about the mission after breakfast. Once the balloon is recovered and we return to Gardermoen it is expected our deployment will end. Please pack and stow the rest of your gear for departure from Gardermoen.” He turned to Dr. Chase, “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

The Dr. shook his head.

“Very well.” Turning back to the assembly, he said, “You are released from your duties today in order to prepare for departure.” With that, he turned and left the mess as briskly as he had arrived.

Charles frowned as he watched Dr. Chase exit the mess hall behind the Colonel. Why did he even show up? wondered Charles. He didn’t seem interested in the briefing, nor did he contribute. Resentment over the long deployment, the inexplicable delay in locating the balloon, and the lack of compassion from Dr. Chase irritated Charles. Why do we need weapons? He thought as he joined the line with his food tray.

*Spy Balloons – This was a real thing in 1956. However, I take a lot of creative license since the program shut down in March of 1956. Charles meets Stella in December of ’56. 

Gardermoen Air Force Base, Oslo, Norway – Stratospheric balloon launches (stratocat.com.ar)

**Enlistment – Did you know an enlistment can be extended involuntarily? I sort of knew, but the following link is enlightening military history.

Military enlistment length and conscription in the US:

Timeline-of-of-conscription.pdf (pbs.org)

**Class B’s – The link here outlines the journey the USAF uniform took as the new branch of the service transformed from it’s beginnings as Army Air Forces.

Waid – LookBack_Transition Period.pub (defense.gov)

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Listen

by S.T. Ranscht

Photo credit: Stefano Pollio, Unsplash.com