Blog: AI writing assistant stories

RONALDO BISTORY (Holo AI)

Ronaldo had always loved the left-side of that small castaway beach, in the upper side of the peninsula. His friend, Isaac, had opened a convenience store there a few years back and his friends would go together to fish and drink. Down by the swampy part of the beach, another local fisherman had opened a dive bar. They would occasionally find themselves at the dive when they ran out of beer and wanted to see people. 

It was an early Friday afternoon. The sun was low and bright over a line of palm trees. Ronaldo and Isaac were in their forties. They still had a lot of life left in them. But they could already feel how a part of it, a real chunk, had already moved past them. 

A sign had appeared on the sand that was not there the day before - "FOR SALE". Possessed by a latent dream to have been someone else, somewhere else, Ronaldo told his friends he would build a restaurant there. A bistro. He felt energized as he said it. 

The road to the beach was not yet paved. They would always get down there with an ancient pickup truck that one of the guys owned. The fishermen thought the idea of opening a restaurant was silly. But they didn't find the energy to tell that to Ronaldo, they didn't have the urge to mess with his convictions. 

That night he dreamed up a logo and the next morning he called his nephew in the big city, who made it come to life in the computer. When Ronaldo opened up the bistro, only months later, he ordered a banner from his nephew's copy-kiosk in the mall, a 10-feeter, and hung it by the door. On that same trip to the mall he bought a checkered apron. He set up tables right in the sand. 

Ronaldo worked long hours. He learned to run a business. He slept three or four hours at a stretch, but he didn't have to do that for long. Things were going well and when the restaurant picked up, he relaxed. When people in the region brought up "castaway beach" others would answer back "The one with Ronaldo's bistro". Tourists started coming. One day some guy from an ugly city in the middle of the country, made a joke to his girlfriend about the banner in the front that announced a "bistro" and what kind of "bistro" has this much sand in it? For a few weeks Ronaldo got really quiet. He called his nephew and asked him if he knew any live musicians. Jazz players. He did and so Ronaldo called one of the jazz players, and the jazz players came. Thursdays through Sundays, there was jazz playing on Ronaldo's bistro.  Fishermen stopped coming altogether. 

Years later, Ronaldo was sitting on a bench outside the bistro. It was a slow Saturday evening. He looked over across the beach, and saw that the dive bar was still there. And so were some of the guys. From a distance, they looked the same. But Ronaldo knew, if he went closer, that he would see how old everyone had become. Isaac waved his hands and said something, across the beach to Ronaldo. He said it again, gesticulating in big movements. But Ronaldo couldn't hear him. All he could hear was jazz.

RONALDO BISTORY (Sudowrite)

Ronaldo had always loved the left-side of that small castaway beach, in the upper side of the peninsula. His friend, Izaac, had opened a convenience store there a few years back and his friends would go together to fish and drink. Down the street, by the swampy part of the beach, another local fisherman had opened a dive bar. They would occasionally find themselves there when they ran out of beer and wanted to see people. 

That night was different. The three of them sat there in Izaac's store and drank. They started discussing life, love and the meaning of everything. They had been that way all night and yet, they had not drunk a lot. But something had happened and alcohol had not played much of a role. It was something else, more like divine intervention.  Soon it was past midnight and the old fishermen had decided to call it a night.

When a plot of land went up for the sale, right on the sand, Ronaldo told his friends he would build a restaurant there. He said it without thinking, possessed by a latent dream to have been someone else, somewhere else. He felt energized as he said it. Isaac looked at him sideways. There were plenty of restaurants just 10 minutes away, by the main road. Maria, a local fisherman's wife, always grilled what they caught during the day. There was no need for a restaurant. But Ronaldo was lost, he was swimming somewhere else. And then he surfaced firmly - "Fine, I will open up a bistro instead." 

It was a brick shack with a tin roof. It rattled when the rain came, and that was what they called, in the village, "rain coming in". During the winter it would be freezing cold inside. During the summer it would be an infernal hot-box. There was no ventilation or any other kind of air going through the place. 

Yet, when they said bistro, that was what he'd built. There was the bar in the middle and the tables and chairs on the sides, arranged in a large rectangular shape. He surveyed the main hall wearing a checkered apron. On the walls there were posters of musicians and actors. He realized he was the only one of his friends that remembered the name of things he saw on television. 

With time, the place became alive and families started showing up. Cars would line up and double park on the dirt road. The castaway beach became known as Ronaldo's beach. Ronaldo, for the first time in many years, felt light. He started drinking wine. In time, the tourists came. 

One day some guy from an ugly city in the middle of the country, made a joke to his girlfriend about the banner in the front that announced a "bistro" and what kind of "bistro" has this much sand in it? and for a few weeks Ronaldo got really quiet. He stopped wearing the checkered apron, went a little heavier on the wine. He called his nephew in the big city and asked him if he knew any live musicians. Jazz players. He did and so Ronaldo called one of the jazz players. But when they came, playing live jazz on Fridays and Saturdays, it was already too late.

One of the guys that had double parked on the dirt road a few weeks back had decided to build a restaurant. Even if on the banner out front, "bar" was written on it, the place had more chairs, sturdier walls, and a larger menu. Ronaldo's place was a bistro and his place was a restaurant. And that was the end of the story. That was the downfall of Ronaldo's bistro.

RONALDO BISTO STORY (Novel AI)

Ronaldo had always loved the left-side of that small castaway beach, in the upper side of the peninsula. His friend, Izaac, had opened a convenience store there a few years back and his friends would go together to fish and drink beers. By the swampy part of the beach, there was dive bar that had been there forever. They would occasionally find themselves there when they ran out of beer and wanted to see other people. 

When a plot of land  went up for the sale, right on the sand, Ronaldo told his fishing buddies he would buy it and build a restaurant there. The locals liked the idea; he could speak their language fluently, and he seemed like an honest guy who would not take advantage of them. But his friends thought the idea was silly; there were many restaurants just off the main-road. Ronaldo looked at them in the eyes and said "but there aren't any Bistros around, are there?" and just like that, everyone was reluctantly agreeing. Ronaldo seemed more worldly all of a sudden, even to himself. That night his dreams were sanguine and full of vigor. 

After months of work (and some help), it finally happened: He got financing; bought materials with money borrowed against future profits; and made it happen. He called his nephew, that ran a copy-kiosk in the mall and told him about his plans. The nephew drafted a logo and printed banners, one for the back door, that led to the street and another to hang from the palm trees on the beach. When Ronaldo went to the mall to the pick up the banners, he also bought a checkered apron. A couple of months later, the bistro was up and running. It was only open during lunch hours, so as not to compete too much with the dive bar. They sold good food, cheap drinks, and had friendly service. 

Things could have been that way forever, but Ronaldo had plans. He learned recipes, would pull up a chair and sit with the customers. He felt special when strangers asked him "what is this fish "mènieure"?" He would pronounce it back the right way, but would never outwardly correct them. He helped out in the kitchen for the first few months. But then he stopped cooking, and then he stopped fishing. All he did was walk around the tables in his checkered apron, looking at people's faces as they ate.  

The owner of the dive bar had come in one day asking about the new place. "It's a Bistro," Ronaldo said smiling, showing off his apron. Unimpressed, the man replied back "So what kind of music do you play here?" Ronaldo smiled back to him, at a loss for words. "All kinds, I guess." The dive-bar owned muttered something under his breath, and left.

Ronaldo woke up earlier than usual the next morning. He walked down to the beach and sat on a rock, watching the sun rise over the ocean. He looked up at the sky and saw a small black dot moving across it. It was a bird, flying south. Ronaldo watched it until it disappeared behind the horizon. It was only then that he realized he had been holding his breath the entire time he watched this bird. 

He called up his nephew and asked "Do you know any Jazz players?"  His nephew said he knew a guy that used to hang around the auto-shop that their family had on the mainland, but was now living in improvised tenement housing, in a place not too far from his uncle. He gave him the address. His nephew was right. It was walking distance.

Ronaldo mulled on it for a couple of days. He closed down the bistro on a Friday afternoon and walked over to the commune to meet Tyler Silva. He was wearing his checkered apron. They were playing jazz. He stayed the entire weekend. He became friends with all of the members of the group: Jandiroba, Quentavilio, Nelis, Gorgonito. Ronaldo also found out his name wasn't actually Ronaldo; it was Roldan, from the Germanic: "fame and success". Tyler Silva was still Tyler Silva. The next Friday, after closing shop, he went back, this time without his apron. He never left. 

RONALDO BISTRO STORY (No Assistant)

Ronaldo had always loved the left-side of that small castaway beach, in the upper side of the peninsula. His friend, Izaac, had opened a convenience store there a few years back and his friends would go together to fish and drink. Down by the swampy part of the beach, another local fisherman had opened a dive bar. They would occasionally find themselves there when they ran out of beer and wanted to see people. 

 

When a plot of land  went up for the sale, right on the sand, Ronaldo told his fishing buddies he would build a restaurant there. He said it without thinking, possessed by a latent dream to have been someone else, somewhere else. He felt energized as he said it. His friends looked at him sideways.  There were plenty of restaurants by the main road, just 10 minutes away. Maria, a local fisherman's wife, always grilled what they caught during the day. There was no need for a restaurant. But Ronaldo was distant, his thoughts swimming somewhere. And then he surfaced firmly - "Fine, I will open up a bistro instead." 

His friends had never heard that word before, so they shrugged in agreement. They were unnerved by the conviction in his voice, how he hurled the unknown in their faces. He had never done that before. Ronaldo went home feeling worldly,  willing to trust his dreams. 

 

Sure enough, that night he dreamed up a logo and the next morning he called his nephew in the big city, who made it come to life in the computer. When Ronaldo opened up the bistro, only months later, he ordered a banner from his nephew's copy-kiosk in the mall, a 10-feeter, and hung it by the door. On that same trip to the mall he bought a checkered apron. He set up tables right in the sand and brought Maria to work with him. 

 

Most people that stopped by ordered the fish of the day, but Ronaldo had plans, he learned recipes, would pull up a chair and sit with the customers. He felt special when strangers asked him "what is this fish "mènieure"?" He would pronounce it back the right way, but would never outwardly correct them. He helped out in the kitchen for the first few months. But then he stopped cooking, and then he stopped fishing. All he did was walk around the tables in his checkered apron, looking at people faces as they ate.  

He developed a ritual. At 5:30 PM he would stand perfectly still in  his favorite spot in the kitchen, facing the outside window, where the sunlight would hit right below his eyes. He would pour himself a glass of red wine and he would see the sunset on that castaway beach. One time he saw one of his customers leave the bistro and ride a jet-ski into the sunset,  a trail of oil in its wake, as the sun faded in the horizon. It was one of the proudest moments of his life. 

 

The bistro did well. When people in the region brought up "castaway beach" others would answer back "The one with Ronaldo's bistro". Fishermen came less. Families would spend the entire day there. And then families from outside of town. One day some guy from an ugly city in the middle of the country, made a joke to his girlfriend about the banner in the front that announced a "bistro" and what kind of "bistro" has this much sand in it? For a few weeks Ronaldo got really quiet. He stopped wearing the checkered apron, went a little heavier on the wine. He called his nephew and asked him if he knew any live musicians.  Jazz players. He did and so Ronaldo called one of the jazz players. 

 

"What's your name?" 

"Tyler Silva" 

"Do you play by yourself?" 

"Sometimes I call a couple of buddies to play with me." 

"In jazz...wouldn't that technically be the Tyler Silva Trio?" 

"I suppose it would." 

 

Ronaldo booked the Tyler Silva Trio to play on Fridays and Saturdays. He made a new banner. It was similar to the old one: the logo stayed the same, but now it had "Jazz: The Tyler Silva Trio LIVE on Fridays and Saturdays" on it. The word "bistro" was a little smaller under the logo. He bought more aprons, different kinds. His new favorite one was a black, steely one, that he embroidered "Ronaldo Bistro", in burgundy red, near the heart. Now when the place was packed with tourists, he wouldn't hear them. Instead, he would hear jazz. 

RONALDO BISTRO STORY (Shortly)

Ronaldo had always loved the left-side of that small castaway beach, in the upper side of the peninsula. His friend, Isaac, had opened a convenience store there a few years back and his friends would go together to fish and drink. Down by the swampy part of the beach, another local fisherman had opened a dive bar. They would occasionally find themselves there when they ran out of beer and wanted to see people. The bar was dark and the service was slow, but the bottles of Jarahili were cheap. Sometimes they would fall asleep on the plastic chairs, and younger, more able men, would drag their soft bodies to the cots in the back. Ronaldo and his friends would wake in the early hours of the morning, parched, and they would get back to fishing and picking up crabs in the sun.

It was on the days following one of those drunken benders, that Ronaldo started feeling different about the beach, the crabs, the Jarahili; he could no longer differentiate one from another, and everything from himself. He started thinking about when was the last time he could do that, separate the world from his memories, but the further he went in his mind, the fuzzier it all became. Images and textures surfaced, almost unattached to feelings, everything with no context. A checkered apron. The sound of a heavy, wooden chair being dragged. A whale floating so still in the water, it must have been dead. 

He started looking at things with a lover's attention, and tried to collect them in his mind. He spent less time talking. On the third day of this new way of being, Ronaldo noticed a "FOR SALE" sign on the other side of the beach, across from the dive bar. Had it always been there? A checkered apron. The sound of a heavy, wooden chair being dragged. "I will open up a bistro", he said to Isaac, and sure enough it, a few months later, there it was, 'Ronaldo Bistro'. 

He marked the name as an homage to his nephew,  who was also named Ronaldo. He had always been a good nephew; a big man, with thin and sagging muscles, but a kind face. He would visit him from time to time. His nephew was not like the others; the ones that mocked him because he would get drunk, that belittled him because he let himself be carried. The more he worked on the bistro, the more he remembered things. He missed his nephew. It had been years since he had seen him. There were small cracks on the floor. Every night a patina of sand would cover everything in the bistro. He would clean it up every morning.  Business was thriving. 

Ronaldo learned recipes. He would pull up a chair and sit with the customers. He felt special when strangers asked him "what is this fish "mènieure"?" He would pronounce it back the right way, but would never outwardly correct them. He helped out in the kitchen for the first few months. But then he stopped cooking, and then he stopped fishing. All he did was walk around the tables in his checkered apron, looking at people faces as they ate. If he could, he would make them raise their chin or tilt their head. He imagined that they were speaking to him without words. There was a face that kept popping up in his mind. It couldn't be,  it was not God, it was not a prophet, it was not a figure of speech. It was lit up by the sun, with sandy brown hair and an open smile.

One day he was walking by the bar. The boldest of his regulars was sitting with a customer, his back towards him. His boots were greasy, and there was something in his expression that made Ronaldo feel his stomach tied in knots. He wanted to itch his nose but instead he left. The small cracks on the floor remained where they were. He needed a break. He walked across the beach, out of the bistro, and back to the dive bar. His feet were covered in mud and sand "Everything in its right place" he thought. He sat in the plastic chair, ordered a beer, and then another, and then another, and then another. He looked fixedly at the door, or the place where a door would have stood in a more respectable environment. But it was a dive-bar on the beach. There was just a hole on the wall, a large rectangular one, where the light poured in, where a man with thin and sagging shoulders could walk through.