Egg Bonanza

The woman came out, the pipe of hair as thin as it had been in the first months and was shaped like an egg-cartin to play the egg hat

Photo by 青 晨 on Unsplash

PROMPT: throw under the bus.

The woman came out, the pipe of hair as thin as it had been in the first months and was shaped like an egg-cartin to play the egg hat.

I was looking, watching through both doors, for someone coming for me, who could look or talk at me.

There was little movement—she was peeling lettuce. She lifted a piece. Her chicken neck was exposed against the florally paper of cardboard of plastic cling.

“Three eggs.”


She shook her head. She was humming behind her chin; it was a gesture for a simple measure of thermone and but a note for nothing that measured up to one.

“I ain’t got no eggs,” she sang in a seductive fashion; she found a pair of the packets. “Does everybody got any eggs? Anyone?”

In silence. Not the motor, though. I wondered if it were the earth she thought she lived in, but if so, whether she had got them from the supermarket; but with the eggs on her left side she was not being humble—she must have planned on handing them out.

She rolled down her coathanger’s sleeves. She peered into the bags.

“Now I got four eggs that ain’t no greater than the one left behind, in the box.”

I knew then that the zipper made the whole bag swell up; my perch needed a corsage. My coathangers were as tiny as the eggs. The butcher wore more than one gun right down his belt, but I believed that for being so wicked and dangerous—just lying, she the person, cruel and aggressive to be as she was, deadly of strike; that if threatened, desperate enough and fleeing anyway in a ludicrous show of knock-knock on our supermarket doors and windows, as a violent woman my mother apparently would be, whether lunatic, terrorized, washed, barefooted, naked, chained, or into the mouth of a hurricane, then she had done well. For not more than the time it took to pick one up and place it under its rack, those four, made for nothing, this yard was part of things you get without care and abandon.

Or wait. That’s just it. The emotions, which was one of the things about her. I went along the hallway that had the possibility of becoming a nice room.


Editor’s Notes

Written by AI, using my multi-temp script, and using my postmodern fiction model, which is a fine-tuning of gpt-2 774M at around 300,000 iterations currently. Chosen from among the other recently generated stories by me, a human.


“throw under the bus”

Came from one of these places, which the script chose at random from a list of phrases:


Swapped one inappropriate word for a mundane one. Added a period at the end.


Title was human-derived by me from the generated text

Plagiarism Checked

Plagiarism checked with Plagiarism-Basic against the dataset

GPT-2 Settings
  "return_as_list": true,
  "length": 500,
  "top_k": 500,
  "top_p": 0.9,
  "truncate": "<|endoftext|>",
  "nsamples": 1,
  "run_name": "model-postmodern-774M-run1",
  "prefix": "throw under the bus",
  "temperature": 1.1000000000000003