I Asked AI for a Thanksgiving Prompt. Ended Up Writing My Stress Dream.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and I’m taking a quick break from a crazy project currently happening at work. How? By asking AI for a writing prompt and then running with it.

The prompt I gave my AI editor: “You’re the editor and I’m the author who always sends you unhinged short stories. I need to write a quick one about being a copywriter at a Thanksgiving table. Give me a one-line opening writing prompt that’ll get the juices flowing. Something unserious, chaotic and hilarious in my usual voice. The kind of chaotic mix you’d find inside an ADHD copywriter’s brain during a big campaign sprint.”

The prompt line it gave me: I knew I was in trouble when the cranberry sauce started giving creative feedback.

Below's the story I wrote from the one prompt line. Enjoy, and have a happy Thanksgiving!

I knew I was in trouble when the cranberry sauce started giving creative feedback at the table. “Can you make my line punchier but more customer-centric? Some people like me in the can, but I can also be homema—”

“Sorry, guys, but I’m the main attraction and ‘Where gratitude meets protein’ isn’t going to cut it,” the turkey announces, already annoyed. “Yes, I know everyone is obsessed with protein these days, but I’m a given. Duh. They all know what I bring to the table. I need 30 —no, 100 — more copy options. We’re not going to use any of them, but churn ‘em out anyway. Oooh, wait. That was a butter pun. We could be on to something here.”

“Drop them in the Mural board,” Green Bean Casserole snaps, adjusting its clipboard like it has somewhere more important to be. “And I swear, if I see one highlighted text box full of copy that doesn’t belong in the main deck, you’re all going in the trash.”

“Get off the hamster wheel! Bring it back to the brief!” Ah, the Chief Creative Kernel cuts in, calm only in theory, nursing black coffee with three-day-old bags under their eyes, clearly ready for someone, anyone, to eat them and end their suffering. “What the hell is shrimp doing here?”

The cocktail shrimps stand up and scurry toward the edge of the table, ready to seal their fates willingly and thankfully. “See? We told you this isn’t our market! We’re a Q4 holiday party SKU. Not a pilgrim-core entrée!”

The squeaky sound of “weeeeeeee” is heard as the shrimps meet their gleeful demise. The mashed potatoes and gravy are jealous of the shrimps getting to depart this chaotic landmine.

I jolt awake in bed, heart racing, whispering, “Taste the panic” into the dark like a haunted copywriter who just accidentally came up with a new platform.