Competition 3462 invited you to submit a short story in which the protagonist lets an algorithm take charge of their life or an aspect of it. It was a smallish entry but a solid effort and mentions should go to Brians Murdoch and Allgar, David Harris, Nicholas Lee and Nick Syrett; there were other good ones besides. The £25 John Lewis vouchers go to those below.
Ever the termagant, Liza attempted to make Greville, her boyfriend, jealous of the algorithm, whose recommendations, she said, proved its superior insight into her character. Knowing Liza liked, or at least bought, the sourly comedic novels of Rachel Cusk, the algorithm had suggested the brittle tragicomedies of Ivy Compton-Burnett. Adoring these, Liza surrendered her taste to its further insights: it chose her next holiday (Rio), dress (Givenchy), sunglasses (AI). It was left to Greville to point out that algorithmic recommendations were inspired not by empathy or understanding but by having found other consumers with Liza’s tastes and commending whatever else said consumerist doppelgängers had bought. For a time, Liza subsided into one of the petulant silences usually occasioned by Greville’s inept and perfunctory gifting habits. Within weeks, Liza had ditched him, the algorithm providing a list of those with identically idiosyncratic purchase histories whom she is now courting with unsettling success.
Adrian Fry
She typed ‘What to wear when eloping with your lover’. Her husband was too trusting to check her browser history. She clicked on black cloaks and a travelling trunk from Lheureux.com (‘18 people have this in their cart’). Copious ads popped up on her feed. Parisian influencers recommended trains, and tour businesses on where to stay discreetly in Italy. ‘How to’ reels displayed quick routes out of France. Only when she received an email from Rodolphe did Emma Bovary realise her plans were for nothing. Suddenly, as she skipped the love songs on her playlist, her phone began playing Adele, while her feed pushed juicy tips on ‘finding a new bit on the side’. Articles promised the easiest way to gain power of attorney and sign promissory notes, plus ideas for carriage routes around Rouen, interspersed with tempting ads for arsenic. She engaged herself afresh, and so it was always.
Janine Beacham
He downloaded LifeOS™ last Tuesday, because Tuesdays felt arbitrary and he wanted someone to feel arbitrary for him. It picked his cereal (‘Optimal fibre-to-regret ratio!’), job, girlfriend – swiping right while he watched, praying rebelliously as if at his own atheist-state trial. Soon LifeOS™ wasn’t enough. He added HopeStream™ daily prophecies, GleeCore™ curated micro-joys, and BlissLedger™, which tracked his optimism while the ‘Moderate!™’app burnt his wrist whenever his gratitude dipped ‘Below-Quota!™’ or ‘Off-Atheism!™’. The apps disagreed slightly, each insisting it alone knew ‘The Path! To His Flourishing!™’.
Then the servers crashed – all three together, cascading outages in data centres he’d never see. Silence. His thumbs hovered over nothing, stretching pathetically for a rating system no longer there… He sat in reassuring darkness all week. Then, smiling, he thought: surely this was scheduled, purposeful, ‘Good!™’ for him somehow. He had no evidence. He felt ‘Wonderful!™’ anyway.
Mark Brown
Nieces, nephews, the round of birthday presents. Surely these came round more often than annually. William, reduced to asking AI for suggestions of ‘trending age-related gifts’ for teenagers he never saw and wouldn’t recognise, struggled with the answers. Still, he could order online and, as thank-you letters were completely out of fashion, he never knew if he caused offence, or even pleasure. Different in my day, he muttered to the calendar. But he was grateful for the suggestions rolling every time he bought something. Why does She think I’d like eyelash curlers? he wondered. But a chair phone stand looked different, as did a Game Controller Crochet Doll: whatever next! He liked the look of a Star Wars Wrist Saver – it might help him in the garden – and why not buy something for himself? No oneelse did. Purple ear defenders? He clicked. The Elvis Lookalike suit? Arriving tomorrow.
William beamed. He had a future.
D.A. Prince
After Giulietta left, I immersed myself in my work and pretty much handed everything else over to the algorithms. I hated shopping. Cooking was a matter of following the instructions. When I was working on the Italian Renaissance module of the ‘Europe around 1500’ course, Mealmaster sent me pizza (yuk), pasta (yum) – I wondered what Renaissance Italians ate before the tomato was introduced – lovely bread and pastries… you get it. The origins of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth brought forth a selection of pierogi, pulpeciki, tasty sausages and pickled you-name-it. The Habsburgs confused the algorithm a bit, as you might imagine, but made for variety. Henry VII anachronistically furnished me with beef wellington, jam roly-poly and barm cakes. So, moving on to the early history of the Reformation, I was surprised to receive a package from Anglers Anonymous. I should have guessed. I’d been put on a diet of worms.
Frank Upton
Reverend Prosy was solemnly proceeding with the marriage ceremony for Henry and Isabel in the church of St Anselm the Ontologist. Echoing through the chancel, he dutifully intoned: ‘Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or …’ when he was interrupted by a ping from the bridegroom’s wrist watch. ‘I know of many’ spoke the tinny Smartwatch voice. Damn, I should’ve turned that off, thought Henry, fumbling for the button beneath cuff links and starched cuffs. ‘Henry has undertaken no comprehensive risk assessment. He knows nothing of Isabel’s genetic profile; he has not scoped her professional prospects; he has no idea of her potential inheritances; he has not enquired of identity, security and criminal records or psychological profiling, or even social media history. This contract is unsound.’ Henry looked worried: ‘Well, Isabel, maybe still time to … rethink?’
Shirley Curran
No. 3465: Down the middle
You’re invited to submit a poem that is centre-aligned, with the middle words creating a message of their own (max. 16 lines; bear line length in mind). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 26 August.
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