Trigger Warning: Sensitive content concerning human trafficking and death.

(Poem 303 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Back when people
owned people in Georgia,
Samuel ran.
Tore up bare feet
pounded the ground
that thick, steamy night
while the moon hung
heavy like a big ol’ eye
watchin’ the swamp.
The ol’ bone creak
of low branches
made his heart pound.
Creepin’ through
the underbrush,
the slave catcher hot
on his trail, Samuel
felt a sudden chill,
like a cold hand
layin’ heavy on the back
of his neck that sent
a shiver down his spine.
Samuel glanced back
to see a pale glimmer,
chains draggin’ in the mud,
and hear, “Keep runnin’,”
from lips that never moved.
The slave catcher
saw her, too, and stumbled
in the muck, into the open
arms of the swamp;
the more he thrashed,
the further he sunk,
and had anyone been
watching, they might have
seen hands reachin’ up
from the twistin’ trees
dragging him below.
Come dawn, Samuel
was breathin’ free air,
and that slave catcher
stayed wrapped up tight
in the arms of the swamp
souls, a warning that people
who try to catch people,
get caught.

@Home Studio – 303^rd poem of the year

This poem was a collaboration between ChatGPT and me. I thought I would share the process so you could see where I got the storyline for the poem:

My Prompt:

generate a short spooky story that is set in the 1800s in the American south in the gothic style of Edgar Allan Poe that involves a runaway slave getting to freedom and a bad slave catcher dying

ChatGPT Tale:

In the depths of a humid, oppressive night in Georgia, beneath a moon that cast pallid beams through the Spanish moss, a man named Samuel crept silently through the tangled underbrush. He had been running for days—barefoot and raw—but tonight was different. Tonight he felt a chill in the air, though the night was warm, a chill that gnawed at his bones and made the shadows press in.

The swamps around him whispered secrets in the rustle of leaves and groan of branches, but he could not stop; he dared not look back. His mind was set only on freedom, and yet, like a hound on his trail, the slave catcher, Jonas Crow, was not far behind, his lantern flickering like a fiery eye.

But something strange hung in the night air—an eerie hush broken only by the hoot of an owl. Samuel heard footsteps in the darkness, close but unseen. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling as though unseen eyes lingered in the shadows, watching, waiting. Then, he heard the soft patter of boots through the swamp, but it wasn’t Jonas this time. No, it sounded lighter, almost like a child’s footsteps.

Jonas trudged behind, muttering curses, a flask in one hand and his pistol in the other. He paused, lantern high, casting long, creeping shadows. He bellowed Samuel’s name into the night air, his voice echoing off the trees like a death knell. But Samuel did not answer; instead, he stumbled deeper into the swamp, driven by a force both fearful and fierce.

Suddenly, the shadows seemed to grow, twisting and writhing in the half-light. A cold wind swept through, and for the briefest moment, Samuel saw her—a woman’s ghostly figure, pale as alabaster, bound in chains that trailed in the mud behind her. Her eyes met his, and though her mouth did not move, he heard her whisper, “Keep running.”

Behind him, Jonas paused, catching the same spectral glow from the corner of his eye. He squinted, blinking rapidly. Then he shook his head, cursing Samuel as he pressed forward, the chains of the phantom now clanking ominously. But as he waded into the murky swamp, his foot snagged on something deep below the surface, and he stumbled, his lantern swinging wildly.

Panicked, Jonas yanked his leg free, only to find himself sinking deeper into the black mire. He screamed, but his voice was swallowed by the night as pale hands rose from the depths, grasping his legs, pulling him down inch by inch. The specter appeared once more, her face contorted in a sorrowful smile, as Jonas’s screams grew muffled, replaced by the sound of gurgling water and the murmur of voices rising from the grave.

When dawn broke, Samuel was miles away, safe and breathing the clean, open air. The swamp held its secrets, and somewhere, in the heart of that darkened land, Jonas Crow remained—a warning to all who would haunt those who sought freedom.

My Prompt:

can you rewrite the story with most of the same words, but add in some dialect as though being told by an old woman from the south?

ChatGPT Tale:

Well, now, let me tell ya somethin’ ’bout the ol’ swamps down in Georgia—’specially on them thick, steamy nights when the moon’s hangin’ heavy like a big ol’ eye watchin’ the land. That’s the kinda night it was, way back when a man named Samuel was runnin’ for his life, runnin’ for freedom with bare feet all tore up, and a mighty fear in his heart.

See, Samuel’d been runnin’ for days, and them days had been mean to him. But this night here? Oh, it was different, child. There was somethin’ wrong in the air, like a cold hand layin’ heavy on the back o’ his neck, even though the night was as warm as the devil’s breath. He kept pushin’ on, creepin’ through the underbrush, glancin’ over his shoulder now ‘n then, with that dark look in his eye. ‘Cause back there, somewhere, was that no-good slave catcher, Jonas Crow, stalkin’ him like a dog with a scent.

Well, as Samuel moved deeper into them swamps, he started to hear things—rustlin’ leaves, them low branches creakin’ like ol’ bones—and then, just as quiet as a whisper, footsteps. Only, these footsteps was strange, lighter than Jonas’s big ol’ boots, almost like a child runnin’ barefoot. But Samuel knew better than to turn ’round. His mind was set on gettin’ outta there, straight into freedom, but those footsteps… child, them footsteps made his heart pound.

Meanwhile, that no-good Jonas Crow was sloggin’ through the mud, cussin’ and yellin’ Samuel’s name to the trees, his lantern throwin’ long, crawlin’ shadows that stretched like they had minds o’ their own. Jonas was an ugly man, drinkin’ outta his flask and holdin’ his pistol like he owned the whole night. He didn’t know it, but the swamps had done took a likin’ to Samuel—an’ they was not gonna let Jonas have his way, not this time.

As Samuel crept through them woods, he thought he saw somethin’ strange: a white glimmer, like moonlight that’d took shape. There, just barely in sight, stood a woman, pale as a ghost, chains draggin’ in the mud. He looked at her, and though her lips never moved, child, he heard her clear as day: “Keep runnin’.”

Jonas, now, he saw somethin’ too. He paused, squintin’ at a flicker outta the corner of his eye, shakin’ his head like he’d seen the devil himself. And maybe he had, for all we know. But he just went on, slingin’ curses like stones, that lantern swingin’ wide, tossin’ those twisted shadows in every which way. Just as he took a step, he felt his foot catch on somethin’ hidden deep under the muck, and he went down hard, right into the swamp’s open arms.

Jonas tried to yank his leg free, but that swamp was hungry, and it had a mighty appetite for his kind. Before he knew it, he was sinkin’ lower, a pale hand reachin’ up from the black water to drag him down inch by inch. He screamed, oh, he surely did, but all his hollerin’ got swallowed by them thick, twistin’ trees. And there she was again, that pale woman, lookin’ down at him with a sorta sad, ghostly smile.

Come dawn, Samuel was far from that place, breathin’ the free air, just as the good Lord meant him to. As for Jonas Crow? Well, child, he stayed in them swamps, wrapped up tight in the arms o’ them souls who walked ‘fore him, a warnin’ to any other man who’d think to come hauntin’ after folks seekin’ freedom.

My Compliment:

Wow! Impressive!

Their Response:

Thank you so much! I’m thrilled you enjoyed it! Writing in that Southern Gothic style really brings the story to life, doesn’t it? Let me know if you want more tales like this—or anything else!