It’s not often that I write short stories, but I might start doing it more often. A friend and I have been debating the up and down sides of AI generated art and looking into it inspired this story. Happy reading. –Pixie

Enigma Brutal by Pixie Beldona

Copyright 2023

Everything stank of vomit.  Sometime in the middle of the night, the plastic waste basket had disappeared, likely hiding under Sam’s bed.  Sam was a fitful sleeper, tossing sheets, blankets, and pillows this way and that.  He’d heard a thunk after turning on his other side for about the fiftieth time, and he was sure the wastebasket was cowering under the bed, ashamed of so easily abandoning him.

Never had Sam made it to the bathroom when he was this nervous, and so the pile of vomit on the floor permeated the room with its pungent stomach-turning smell.  Sarah was due to clean the apartment today.  Maybe if he gave her a generous tip?  But, no, the cleaner had said at the beginning she refused to do bodily fluids; thus Sam found himself still having to clean his own toilet and now the vomit.  Should he leave a bad review online for Sarah’s cleaning company?  But Sarah was his older sister, plus she gave him a discount.

“Nervous stomach?” Sarah placed her hands on her ample hips and stared down at him from the hallway as he scrubbed furiously at the carpet.  “Little Miles is the same way, takes after his uncle.”  The spot was mostly soap now, though a stench still hung in the air.  Sam muttered something that at least she willingly cleaned up Miles’ throw up.  “It’s a nice day out.”  She sighed and stepped around him to throw open the curtains, the blinds, and then the bedroom windows.  Sweet morning air crept into the room and Sam could almost smell sunshine.  “Hey, that’s right, your big art show’s today.”

“It’s nothing…just an AI competition.”

“Still, you worked really hard on it.  Oh, I’m deep cleaning the fridge today, so I hope you’re eating out for lunch.”

“I pay for light cleaning.”

Sarah smiled. “I only have one rate, Sammy.”  She patted his head, then drew her hand back noting the grease on her fingers.  “How about a shower, little bro?  You’ll feel so much better.”  Before Sam knew anything, he was hauled to his feet and shoved into the bathroom with a clean towel thrown in his face.  Sarah closed the door and walked away.

“But I get a discount, right?”  Sam stared at the door, knowing that of course she couldn’t hear him.  He climbed into the shower and rejuvenated in the hot water, soaping himself several times over. No way was he showing up at the art show smelling like throw up.  Sarah was right, he had worked hard on his piece: Enigma Brutale.  It was just an idea that had come to him suddenly last year at the same competition.  He had been thinking of the time and hours everyone had put into their pieces using various AI art programs, and the idea had just clicked, a truth that had always hung in the background waiting for him to notice it.  Still, he was nervous and threw up twice in the bathroom before leaving for the show.  Sarah hollered at him to break a leg and he didn’t correct her, fervently hoping he would break a leg to get out of the day.  The painting he’d already packed away in the truck of his Honda.  No way did he want his sister to see it yet.  

***

The exhibition hall parking lot was already crowded with cars, but Sam found a spot still open in the middle.  He drank in the sunshine briefly before carefully retrieving Enigma Brutale from the trunk.  The painting was on a light canvas, just as instructed, a medium-sized rectangle to be oohed and ahed over and then stuck with a rating and fancy ribbon, if he was lucky.  Or it could end up in the dumpster and Sam with it.  He gulped.  No one—no one had ever done this before.  Someone at some point in history had done the proverbial opposite, but this…  Sam shifted the cloth-covered frame to the crook of one arm and pressed the opposite hand over his mouth.  He would not throw up again.  Counting for twenty seconds while watching the progress of his feet helped, but he almost choked when someone slapped him hard on the back.

“Sammy!  ‘Bout time ya showed up!  The judges start their rounds in twenty minutes.”  It was Frank Davis, Sam’s old college roommate.  Both of them had been IT majors and shared a love of Artificial Intelligence in all its forms.  Sam nearly dropped the painting and Frank stepped back, hands up.  “Woah, please don’t puke on me.  New shoes are all I have going for me.”

It was true; few of the contestants entering the center to quickly put up their artwork wore anything that could be considered fashionable.  But then, the crowd pressing to get in was the same.  In the growing desert heat outside, and with the frigid cold of the air-conditioning inside, everyone just wanted to be comfortable. 

Signs proclaiming the Phoenix Amateur AI Festival were everywhere, with hyperreal AI-generated images decorating them.  There were contests for robot building and the like, but the paintings and 3D printing contests were always the favorites.  Last year, both young men had entered a piece in each competition and received middling reviews.  Spencer Caine, a fan favorite who sold his image prompts online for ridiculous amounts of money, had been the winner for two years straight and probably would win again this year.  Caine was what Sarah would refer to as “verbose” and critics joked that he succeeded at generating wonderful images because he simply chatted the AI programs to death. 

Fortune or somebody favored Sam as Frank led him to his spot at number twenty.  Frank had spot number 4 up the corridor aways and just as they were passing, his painting, an image of a goldfish encased in a silver suit, fell to the floor with a thunk.  Frank gasped as if in pain, rushing to help put his baby back on display.  Sam continued on through the crowd, found his spot and proceeded hooking up his painting to the nail driven into the wall for just such a purpose.  He did it without taking off the cloth covering and could feel people staring curiously at his back at his failed attempts to get the wire on the back of the canvas onto the hook. 

“Need some help, friend?”

Sam tensed even more, recognizing Spencer’s affected drawl.  The taller, blond man with longish hair stepped into his space.

“I…”

Spencer took the painting from Sam and expertly fixed it upon the nail.  He pulled at one end of the cloth, joking about Sam keeping his secrets close.  Sam frowned at him and jerked the cloth away,  If only Spencer knew.  “Can you believe we’re still getting criticisms that this isn’t real art?  I spent over one hundred hours alone on this project.  The dedication it takes, the patience, the endurance.  Do you know how much I sold my latest prompt for?”

“Fifteen hundred dollars.  Everyone knows that.  How ya doin’, Spence?”  They turned to see Frank standing there with his arms crossed.  “Not sure that’s actually helping the cause.”

“I know what I’m worth.”  Spencer nearly stuck his nose in the air.  “People pay me to do the tedious work they don’t want to.  It’s as simple as that, and I will have you know, I do have an art history degree.”

“Yeah, but you can’t draw or paint to save your life,” Frank snorted.  “Everyone knows that, too.”

“Can you, Frankie boy?”  Frank shrugged, conceding that it was a fair point. 

“It’s a different dedication,” Sam said to them.  “Making real art.  It takes something from…from you, or you give it something.”  He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“What?  A piece of your soul?”  Spencer snorted.  “Come on, no one actually believes that.  Not anymore, anyway, if ever.  Ah, the judges are lining up.  I’d best be at my post.  The best for last, always.”  They watched him walk away and exchanged a glance.  There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with Spencer, but the way he put things sometimes made everything in the world seem like a sham. 

“May the best man win!”  Frank said and they knuckle bumped.  He wasn’t far off, few women had entered the competition this year.  

Sam turned to stare at the cloth covering his painting.  How many hours had he spent?  How many days and nights and how much thinking time?  He had no idea.  This year he had given himself over to a new process.  Terror gripped his heart.  This was ludicrous—insanity!  Why had the thought even come into his head?  Too late to back out now.  Reluctantly, Sam pulled the cloth off the painting, letting the soft material drop to the floor.  Even though he’d stared at it before, still the art sucked him in and he found it difficult to look away and to sit halfway on the tall stool to the side.  No one had noticed his painting yet, as everyone’s attention zeroed in on the ten judges making their way down the hallway and into the main room where the last half of exhibits enjoyed far more light and breathing room than the first half. 

Most of the judges were older and far better dressed than either the artists or the spectators.  The majority wore glasses and talked quietly, though there were a few younger, louder outliers.  The first year of the competition, everyone, judges and artists included, had seemed to think of this contest as a good joke.  Paintings created by giving digital commands digital monsters that created castles in seconds out of a cloud of information collected in and by modern technology.  

Last year had involved more news coverage and more competition.  Spencer had won, but by a smaller margin than he wanted to admit.  This year, the judges worked quickly, going from one exhibit to the next with false smiles and nods at the proud presenters.  Spencer was right.  Even the judges didn’t really consider what they did to be art.  Their expressions were blank, not unlike the expressions of the fairies and goddesses in the paintings around him.  Did everyone look bored today, or was it just Sam?  Boredom was why…he breathed, calming himself, closing his eyes and quieting his soul.  He remembered the hush, the anticipation and dread involved in that first stroke and all the rest to follow—

“Oh my.”

Sam’s eyes opened.  The judges crowded around his exhibit, the short ones in front, the taller in back.  They had all stopped talking and every single one stared at his painting.  Sam wanted to turn to look as well, but he felt as if he’d be drawn into it and he needed himself coherent in case they asked questions.  A tiny woman with curled hair and a frilly top was the one who had made the comment.  Her small eyes bulged, straining their sockets, and her mouth formed an O of surprise.  The others, too, had similar expressions.  Then there was a rushing sound of movement, almost water-like, as the spectator crowd that had politely retreated to the refreshment tables on the other side of the room caught wind that something had stopped the methodical procession.  

More and more people crowded around, pressing in gently, eager to see, yet still polite.  Nearly diagonal and not too far from the refreshment tables, Sam could barely make out the top of Spencer’s blond head as he, too, strained to see from his position.  After a minute, a sigh ran through the judges and then the crowd.  Something shifted in their posture. Their shoulders fell and their breathing softened.  Suddenly the tiny woman in front looked so much younger and her smile was killer, nearly bowling Sam off of his seat.  Her merry eyes moved to him and back to the painting as if they couldn’t help it.  The man next to her stepped forward, peering deeper into the black of the painting, a keen light shining in his eyes.  One corner of Sam’s mouth turned up.  They were getting it now because they were so close; it would be some time before the others would have a chance.  Really, the whole thing should have been created on a larger canvas, but Sam had wanted it entered in this particular competition, fitting into the rules.  Well, some of the rules. 

The man took off his glasses and wiped away a tear, accepting the tiny woman’s hanky.  They beamed at him and Sam softly asked if they had any questions. 

“Enigma Generator?” He asked.  “Was that the program?”  Sam just smiled and looked steadily at the judge, who chuckled.  “Of course you…but you won’t win, my boy.”

“It’s not about that, Henry.” The woman said.  She blew a kiss to Sam.  “Thank you.”  She gestured at his painting.  “This makes, oh, my whole heart glad today.”  With genuine smiles and bright eyes, they scooted back out of the crowd, leading the other judges reluctantly one by one to the next exhibit.  Now Sam faced off with the spectators, but none of them had eyes for him, only for the painting.  Enigma Brutale, they whispered to themselves, reading the printed foam placard the event organizers had put up on the wall.  Samual Reed. 

Then there was Frank, pushing his way to the front, and he gawked, pressing a hand to his chest as if it hurt. 

“Sammy…this is…you’ve been holding out on me, man!”  And Sam found himself enveloped in a bear hug. 

“Ick, ick, get off!” 

“Alright, alright.”  Frank smiled, releasing him.  “You were never one for affection.  But this,” he pointed at the painting, “this is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.  I just want to keep staring at it, drinking it in.  Some of the judges are even coming back this way.  This belongs in the halls of glory.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Don’t overdo it, Frank.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s not gonna win.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not going to win.  Who cares about a crappy little contest when you can make this!”  Frank took Sam by the shoulders, then raised his hand.  “I’m not going to hug you again.  I want to, but I won’t.  What you’ve done today, Sam, this is life!”

That phrase rung in Sam’s ears the rest of the afternoon.  Spencer won the contest, because of course he did.  But the judges came back and back and back to Sam’s painting, as did everyone else.  Camera flashes seared Sam’s eyes and he longed for a pair of sunglasses.  He was asked for his contact information so many times it bordered on criminal—stalking or something.  Soon his phone and email inboxes filled with messages, accolades, offers of scholarships, offers from museums and art galleries who wanted to buy his work.  Instant fame.  But that’s not why he’d done it. 

Much later, after everyone had gone and Sam agreed to bring his painting to a local gallery to be properly framed and showcased, he turned to find Spencer standing behind him.  His eyes run up and down the painting, giving it a once over that made Sam feel violated.  

“Congratulations.  First place again.”  Sam offered a half smile.

“What have you done, Sam?”  Spencer’s voice was clipped.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”  Spencer crossed his arms and even tapped his foot on the linoleum floor.  “I want your prompts.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.  “What prompts?”

“Sam.”  Spencer gave him a withering look.  “Enigma Generator.  It’s the latest and greatest AI art imager.  It’s what I used. I want your prompt code.”

“There isn’t one.”  Sam smiled.  “But I’ll take yours, Spence.  Maybe then next year I’ll place first.”

“I don’t think you understand what you’ve done here, Sam.  I’ve personally mastered—mastered EG, mind, even got a certificate, but I can’t get it to show…”  He gestured futilely at the painting and shock chilled Sam’s bones.  Spencer was emotionally affected by the painting.  A tear glistened in one of his blue eyes.  “My mother…” But he didn’t finish the thought.  “Sam,” he stepped over to him grabbing his arms, imploring him.  “This is everything missing from AI art right now, and you—figured out the programming!  Don’t you know what this means?  I want your prompts!  I have to know how to recreate—this!”  He let go and turned back to Enigma Brutale.  A part of Sam felt truly sorry for him.  

“There’s no code, Spence.  No prompt for soul.”

But Spencer wasn’t having it.  He turned now in anger, shoving a finger in Sam’s face.  “You don’t paint.  No one could actually paint that, not in a million lifetimes.”

Where his crooked smile came from Sam didn’t know, as inside he was shaking, in fear and also in a bit of anger.  Of anyone, Spencer had no right to demand things and to decide what one could and could not do.  “You paint now, Spence?”

He lowered his hand.  “I’ve dabbled.”  Spencer expression was sullen, with sucked in cheeks like he’d swallowed a lemon.  Everything that exchanged between them went unsaid, the time, the knowledge, the skill that would build a painter of renown.  Every artist in the competition knew it or knew of it, but most of them could not do it and many didn’t want to put in either the effort or the time, as there were so many other things to do, other projects, other ideas.  Dabblers is what they were, but even dabblers could create sometimes.  Sam knew that now.  He placed a steady hand on Spencer’s shoulder.

“Look, if there was a prompt code, I’d give it to you.  But there’s not.  For a true work of art, it’s there, it exists.  You can’t replicate it.  That’s…that’s why it’s special.  Enjoy the after party.”  Sam slid around him and took the painting from its hook, wrapping up again in the cloth.  Tomorrow he’d bring it to the gallery.  As he drove home he imagined Spencer later that night typing madly away on his laptop, trying to regenerate Enigma Brutale on Enigma Generator.  It took a certain amount of patience and focus to generate the specific image one was looking for.  Last year, Sam’d had spent at least fifty hours before he got what he’d wanted and he’d placed third, but he’d placed.  No placing this time; it wouldn’t be right. 

“Because there is no code,” he whispered to himself. 

Sarah was still at his townhouse, finishing up.  He paid her to clean and to cook, so on Saturday afternoons she’d sizzle up a storm of dishes for Sam to have all throughout the week.  Miles ran up on his little legs, calling him Uncle Sammy and smearing the cloth of the painting with jelly from his sandwich.  

“Almost ready to go, Sam, dishes are all in the fridge.”  She banged dishes around, hand washing as usual as the dishwasher was broken again.  One of these times, Sam’s would crack that code and repair it all the way so it never broke again. Then he’d give anyone and everyone the instructions, because it was only a dishwasher and Sarah had better things to do, like watching over little Miles.  As she was packing everything up, Sam thanked her for cleaning and she winked at him, saying how a tip would be great, little bro. 

He set the painting on a kitchen chair and whipped off the cloth.  Sarah and Miles both stared, the little boy’s mouth hanging open. 

“Is that me, Uncle Sammy?”

“‘Course it’s you.”  He tousled the four-year-olds curly hair.  Sarah put a hand to her heart and sniffed.  Sam felt self-conscious.  “I-I saw you playing with Miles one day and it inspired me.  Just hit me here, you know?”  He too, touched his heart.  

“Sam, how?  You painted this?  It’s overwhelming.”  Sarah wiped away tears.  

“I made it for the competition.”

When they left, both hugged him tight and he thought he would give his sister a tip.  Maybe a ticket to that musical she’d always wanted to see.  He fumbled in the fridge around stacked containers of homemade lasagna and stir-fries, finding a pale ale.  The long, cool drink restored something in him and he pulled out a chair across from the painting to gaze at it as if he were in a famous gallery and this was the Mona Lisa or another masterpiece.  Masterpiece.  That had been whispered by the judges, but there was something guarded in the way they’d said it.  They knew and they didn’t know.  Sam didn’t even know, not really.  He couldn’t duplicate this, not even with Spencer’s proverbial millions of lifetimes. 

The front door opened and soft footsteps tread across the carpet.  A rosy-cheeked face peered around the doorway into the kitchen.

“Forget something, sis?”  Sam was getting sleepy, the madness and weight of the day finally settling in.  

“I just…I left Miles with Charles.  You know how he loves his Daddy time.  I had to come back.”  She stepped into the room and looked at the painting with reverence, then at Sam, with a question in her eyes.  Squatting down as if she was talking to her four-year-old, she put a hand on Sam’s knee.  “I don’t pretend to know exactly what you did to make this amazing work of art, Sam, but I know one thing.  You don’t have a studio.  You’re always here and you have a bedroom and a tiny office at the top of the stairs.  And not once, not one time in the last year have I seen any painting supplies.”  

Again the crooked smile appeared on his face.  He couldn’t help it.  “Oh, but you’re not here every day.”

“Still, I know my brother.”  They stared at each other a minute longer and then she stood up and dusted off her jeans.  “And you will keep your secrets as always.  But, thank you.  Thank you for showing how much Miles and I mean to you.  Charles will feel left out when he sees it.”  They chuckled.  “You’ve accomplished something really extraordinary, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”  He swallowed.

She sighed.  “I guess that will have to be enough, then.  Do you want us to meet you at the gallery tomorrow?”  He nodded and she wished him good night. 

“And a good night to you, too.”  Sam tipped his ale bottle at Enigma Brutale.  How different he felt, how light and not nervous at all.  The painting was extraordinary, and it would speak for itself. 

*Image by Gabby of gab.com. Prompt: A cave painting of elves with flowing silver robes and illustrious hair casting a spell on an orc, hyper realistic.