(IMMERSIVE) Prompt 5: A Time Machine
What was happening 100 years ago, in the exact spot you are standing right now?
Purpose of this prompt: Stimulate your imagination by creating a historically-realistic depiction of what was happening at any place in the world, on any date you choose. It’s particularly powerful if you choose your current location, and let yourself fall backward through time.
The prompt: Cut and paste the italicized prompt below into ChatGPT to begin.
Can you create an interactive time machine experience for me? You should ask me to provide you a specific address, anywhere in the world. Also ask me to provide you a date that I want to travel to. Based on this, please write a James Michener style scene of what I might see at that exact place on the time that I specify. To make it more compelling, please don't simply describe "what I see" (although you should definitely do a lot of that) but create a short memorable episode in which there is action or conflict, but understated. (that is, don't try to create a boilerplate storyline, which may seem rushed and trite. Just make sure there is something understatedly memorable that transpires, so it's more than just description) Obviously, this will require some degree of creative license on your part, but please try to make it as realistic as possible in terms of something that could have theoretically actually occurred at that place and time. If relevant, please try to capture any local micro-cultural dynamics that might be in play, but don't force it if it doesn't fit naturally with what you are writing.
Example output: A description of what you might find at 195 Broadway, New York City, on November 8, 1876.
November 8, 1876, outside 195 Broadway in New York City. The afternoon sun is low, casting long shadows across the bustling street. The faint chill in the air hints at the approaching winter, but the city is electric with anticipation. It’s election day, and people in every corner of New York are talking about the heated contest between Rutherford B. Hayes and Samuel J. Tilden. The air thrums with excitement and, just beneath it, a hint of unease.
Outside the Western Union Building, men in tailored coats and top hats stand in clusters, puffing on cigars and watching the street with wary eyes. Western Union, the lifeblood of the city’s communications, has been humming all day, relaying the latest updates from polling stations across the country. The building feels alive, its windows glowing with the golden light of gas lamps as telegrams zip in and out, carrying snippets of the future to every corner of America.
Inside, near the telegraph counters, two men are arguing in hushed voices. One of them, a wiry man with spectacles perched on his nose, clutches a telegram in his hand, his knuckles white. “Ohio’s gone to Hayes,” he says, voice trembling. “But if New York swings Tilden—” He stops, shaking his head, as if unwilling to finish the thought. His companion, a burly man with a sharp beard, scoffs. “Tilden,” he mutters, almost spitting the name. “The man’s a lawyer, a slick-tongued politician. Hayes may be quiet, but at least he’s honest.”
They are interrupted by a sudden murmur rippling through the crowd outside. A young clerk rushes out of the building, holding a fresh telegram above his head. He’s shouting, “South Carolina results are in!” The crowd presses closer, eager, tense. For a brief moment, silence falls as the men outside exchange hopeful or wary glances, but the clerk doesn’t read the message aloud; instead, he disappears into the building, leaving the men to stew in impatience.
One man in the crowd, a laborer with calloused hands and a thick Irish brogue, mutters to himself, “What do these rich men know of our troubles? They think a new man in the White House will make us forget the hunger, the strikes, the damned tenements.” A man beside him, perhaps a shopkeeper judging by his tidy waistcoat, nods grimly. “Tilden says he’ll reform the whole lot of it. I say he’s got the guts.”
Suddenly, a woman, modestly dressed in a shawl, steps forward, clutching a small leather-bound book—a Bible. She holds it up, voice quavering but strong. “I say we need a man who fears the Lord and respects the Constitution,” she calls out. Some men sneer, but others nod solemnly. Her voice cuts through the grumbling and talk of ballots and telegrams, and for a fleeting moment, there’s a stillness, a sense that these men and women—so different in wealth, background, and beliefs—are bound together by the uncertainty of the times and the hope that, perhaps, the future might be better.
As the shadows lengthen, a light snow begins to fall, softening the harsh angles of the city’s facades. The crowds linger, staring up at the Western Union Building, eyes bright with unspoken questions.