Artificial Intelligence: The Creator’s Ally or Assassin?

I recently found myself in a heated debate with an acquaintance who made a rather chilling claim: “Soon, your writing won’t be worth a dime. AI will do it in seconds, for free, and most importantly, without a single mistake.” I fell silent for a moment. It’s a brutal, yet logically haunting thought, isn’t it? Are we—the creators, writers, artists, and architects of ideas—being stripped of our ancestral throne of “creativity”? Or is this just another wave of panic in the face of a technological revolution?

In reality, modern neural networks are essentially massive statistical vaults, a sophisticated dance of mathematical probabilities. They’ve devoured millions of texts and “digested” thousands of paintings. They can mimic Shakespeare’s prose, Van Gogh’s strokes, or Beethoven’s melodies. But one fundamental question remains unanswered: Why are they doing it? For an AI, creation is simply calculating the probability of where the next word or color should land. To a machine, the word “love” differs from “hate” only by its digital code. For a human, however, creation is pain, lived experience, and the sleepless nights hidden behind every period placed on a page. A machine can render a beautiful image, but its hands don’t tremble while drawing, and its heart doesn’t skip a beat with excitement.

In my view, artificial intelligence is not the assassin of the creator, but rather the arch-enemy of “mediocrity.” If your work consists merely of ready-made templates, repetitive thoughts, and soulless data, then yes—admittedly—AI will replace you easily and mercilessly. Machines understand patterns better than humans ever will. But your personal character, your past traumas, and those peculiar, sometimes irrational, yet deeply sincere perspectives—no algorithm can replicate that.

History shows us that when the camera was first invented, painters spiraled into a similar panic: “Art is dead! Everything looks real now; we are obsolete!” But what actually happened? Painting didn’t vanish; instead, it evolved. Artists moved away from simply copying the external world and began to capture its inner essence and emotion—giving birth to Impressionism, Cubism, and Abstraction. The camera wasn’t a rival; it became a powerful new tool. Today, AI is our modern “brush” or “pen.” It assists us with the mundane and the tedious: fixing grammar, brainstorming ideas, or structuring drafts. But the final spark that breathes “life” into a piece of work still comes from the human soul.

I envision the future as a bipolar landscape. On one side, there will be an endless flood of AI-generated content—cheap, fast, and superficial. You could compare it to “fast-food creativity”: it fills the stomach but leaves the spirit starving. On the other side, work crafted by human hands, beautiful in its imperfections and smelling of personality, will become a true luxury. People will grow weary of the machine-generated perfection and begin to crave human sincerity—that unique, slightly “chaotic” touch of a real person.

Ultimately, artificial intelligence is a vast mirror. It reflects the world we know, the texts we’ve written, and the images we’ve dreamt up. It is neither my friend nor my assassin. It is my echo. As long as I have my own thoughts, my own voice, and a unique word to say to the world, no line of code can ever take my place. Therefore, it’s time to stop the fruitless struggle against technology and start learning how to wield it. In this new era where “Chaos” reigns, only those creators who refuse to lose themselves will survive.

Shahnoza Amonboyeva— A student of the Faculty of Computer Engineering at Urgench State University, an explorer carving her path at the intersection of technology and creativity. She is the author of several analytical articles, with her work featured in prestigious anthologies. An active participant in international quiz competitions, she holds numerous certificates and official membership in an international association. Her current academic goals include winning the University Rector’s Scholarship and prestigious national named scholarships. Looking ahead, she aims to become a leading expert in her field by enhancing her professional qualifications in various countries worldwide.

“life in the dead zone” 

After  Leonard Bird who stood up

Obey all commands issued

especially those that do not make

any sense:

“Shortly after the implosion, you will

stand up and face ground zero. You will

observe the effects of the fireball and

its subsequent mushroom. Approximately

two hours later, you will mount an assault

on ground zero—“

Welcome to Yucca Flats, welcome to first

hand viewing Shot Hood.

“Stand assured! You will be at no risk.

None whatsoever if you follow our 

instructions.”

“Radioactive dust poses no immediate danger.

Sweepers with brooms will be employed to

remove any dust that remains after the test.

Showers will be available to wash excess dirt

and debris away, as will new uniforms to replace

your old soiled ones.”

It is only later that the danger will become

apparent, that the risk factor will increase.

“Don your gas masks; check your straps.

Check your buddy’s straps. Fall to one knee.

Cover your eyes.  Pull your field jacket over

your head and over you face.  Cross your arms

on your knee.  Bury your face in your crossed arms.”

You are Marines.  You are volunteers;

Volunteers, volunteered, involuntarily.

“Two minutes until zero hour.  Two minutes!

Assume the final position.  Cover your faces.

Block out all light.  Cross your arms on your

knee.  Bury your covered face in your crossed

arms.  Repeat!  Block out all light!”

Think about this:

“March toward ground zero!”

And what good these safety measures will do:

“All right, Marines.  Dust yourself off.

Thoroughly.  Repeat.  Thoroughly!”

The real final position taken much later on,

once the defenses are completely broken

down and the cancer, the enemy is fully established. 

“It is always snowing when I read the Russians”

after a line by Sean Thomas Dougherty

& my head is packed with ice,

my eyes are frozen coals made

harder by the drop forge of burning,

the last white light of heat’s evisceration

stolen from bodies wrapped in fur.

I am reading the Russians

by lamplight: Chekhov’s Country

Doctor rides a pale horse, fights

a duel over lost love and is wounded

but doesn’t die, squanders money

on the tables, drinks last kopeks

meant for the family meal while

his children freeze for want of coal.

I am reading how they survived 

Stalingrad, deliberately starved 

and made more desperate

so they would fight that much

harder to protect what little

remained; for want of potatoes

they ate dirt.

I am reading the Russians

and how they tell of ice breaks

so forceful, soul loud they sounded

like thunder, like a thousand cannons

at the Front, all the unburied dead

rising to fight again; after two years

of holding off the Germans anything

is possible even retribution, even salvation.

I am reading the Russians

and listening to Prokofiev, 

Alexander Nevsky and how 

the peasants sang as they worked,

how they fought, listening to wordless

chanting of a Russian Easter Overture

suggesting after Death, Renewal and

I am listening to Shostakovich, Babi

Yar, Leningrad, those symphonies

that told another story of the Motherland,

the one of terror and murder and exile

to places from which no one ever returned,

the real stories, the ones the State denies

but the People know in their bones.

The Saturation Bombing of Saddam’s Army in Retreat During 

First Gulf War Crusade as the Book of Revelation

after reading Quan Barry

All the precision hits, staged and televised on

CNN News and elsewhere for the world

to witness.

All the cities, towns, enclaves reduced to ruin 

from above with a Biblical kind of Technological

wrath.

All the Kuwaiti oil fields on fire, belching noxious

black smoke, fouling the air, the beaches,

the desert.

All the putative Armies of Occupation bombed into submission,

concussed bodies left whole on the fields

of battle, undamaged on the outside, fucked

on the inside. 

All the corpses made into shriveled effigies of men 

trapped in their fire-ruined vehicles; memento mori 

for conquering armies rebuffed, in full rout.

All those armies in retreat, on straight open roads in

wide open desert spaces, on raised berms, barely

moving targets without defenses or recourse.

And the man who ordered the wholesale annihilation by

saturation bombings and later, rescinded, after tens

of thousands died.

The Killing Fields as Robert Towne’s Screenplay for “Chinatown”

after reading Quan Barry’s Incontrovertibles

Seven million skulls planted on the sloping streets in

soft earth beneath cobblestone streets.

The skulls that sprout are fashioned into masks for

street mimes, performance artists, trick or

treating kids.

Each time a siren is heard, a new round of killings is

announced.

Hovering overhead, chopper blades localize the places where

blood has been shed and broadcasts it to networks,

police headquarters, the general’s palace.

The mastermind behind the most heinous of the ritual killings

sends disciples made totally suggestible by infusions

of drugs, sexual addiction and hypnotic commands,

to continue the killing

Blood of the victims is used to write DEATH TO PIGS 

on walls, or to leave tell-tale prints to warn those

who follow the killers here, that the Future will be

determined by a new kind of Primal Law: Kill or Be 

Killed, Eat or Be Eaten.

Stated fears of race wars, and political persecution, are just a

rationalization, an excuse to insure that the killing will

go on.

Witnessing the senseless murdering reveals that, Death is a release,

that what may be done to the next generation, the unprotected

by arms and man, will be much worse that what has been

done to the dead ones, and you will be powerless to prevent it.

There is no overthrowing the strongman, only Death will survive.

“It’s Chinatown, Jake.”

It’s the Killing Fields, folks

Cold War Entertainment: a triptych

On the foreground of three panels

a lady from the fifties rolls up her

skirt to reveal what is beneath:

shapely legs in silk stockings, 

fetchingly flexed on high heels.

A refuge from a Beckett play

circus clown sprawls on a bare

panel, balancing a Shirley Temple

doll on his nose.

And a well-dressed-for-work-and-

play man, standing on his head, suit jacket

and tie folding over, white shirt neatly

tucked in, black socks and garters

exposed where the pants legs slide down.

All framed against a large-as-life backdrop/

photograph of the aftermath of A-bomb  

on the cities in Japan.

When Your Heart Is Broken

Poem by Lan Xin (Lanxin Samei)

My dear

When your heart is broken

sad

grieving

disheartened

sobbing

At this very moment

you feel you have lost the whole world

thinking that person was your entire world

But in truth

they are nothing more

than a tiny ordinary soul in this vast universe

They are merely

someone who passed by your life

but was never meant to stay

My dear

you think

when they left

the world abandoned you

You believe

when they stopped loving you

the whole world stopped loving you too

But the truth is

your karmic bond has simply come to an end

They no longer belong to your world of love

Yet your world

still belongs entirely to you

Those who truly love you

still love you

and will love you forever

My dear

you feel the star of love has fallen

trapping you in a dark corner ——

1. light
2. hope

Your strength fades away

your heart is paralyzed

as if you can barely breathe

You walk forward alone lost and helpless

But trust me

their love for you was once real and deep

Their leaving

does not mean the love vanished

It only means

nothing in this world lasts forever

Perhaps

loving you was easy

but staying with you

was too difficult

My dear

that person was a shooting star

across the sky of your heart

The brief bright light

that once illuminated your soul ——

that is the beauty they brought into your life

Though the shooting star is gone

the sky of your heart still remains

It still holds the sun the moon and the stars

that will never leave you

never forsake you

And you too will live forever

in the purest most sacred corner of their heart ——

eternally

My dear

trust me

before long

someone new will come

They will take on the unfinished mission

rekindle the lamp of love in your heart

light up your path ahead

and warm the rest of your life with gentle enduring love ……

© 2026 Lan Xin (Lanxin Samei) All Rights Reserved

About Lan Xin

A world-renowned cultural figure, an internationally renowned writer of high-dimensional wisdom, poet and translator of China, winner of multiple international literary awards and outstanding international contribution honors, Ambassador of Great Love and Peace, the only female inheritor of UNESCO Memory of the World Dongba Culture, Dean of Dongba Culture Academy and Lanxin Samei Academy.

            

       Longing…
In my heart, there are countless laments,
If I try to speak—who is there to listen?
With a painful melody, my soul burns,
Enough… my beloved remains in my memory.

Calling myself the cure to my own pain,
If I write strange verses in loneliness,
When I try to write, words fail my sighs,
Enough… my beloved remains in my memory,

From sorrow, flames spark within my heart,
My starry nights turn into day,
I miss you—who will feel my longing?
Enough… my beloved remains in my memory…                

My Beloved…

In sweet dreams, on the wings of my desires,
Like the moon’s embrace, immersed in endless joys.
You come shyly, with a gentle, hidden smile,
My love, created only to love me.

You are the cure to my heart, my sweetest voice,
Like the sun in the sky, spreading light above.
You are my happiness, my soul rejoices seeing you,
My love, created only to love me.

Like the fragrance of countless garden flowers,
Like the pure blue of the endless sea.
I loved you, my dear, just like Layli loved,

My love, created only to love me…

 Love…

If only you’d listen to my heart just once,
With hope it whispers, “I miss you, my love.”
Still, I go on living because of you,
A word that burns my soul — that word is love.

This heart longs for the day you came to me,
Its cries resound, yet swallow all its pain.
My yearning calls to you from far away,
A word that burns my soul — that word is love.

Why do hearts never escape their sorrow?
Why do these aching songs never fall silent?
Even in anguish, my heart seeks only you,
A word that burns my soul — that word is love.

Oh heart, it calls your name across the skies,
In heavens, in the moon, perhaps in air.
It searches always, even in melodies,
A word that burns my soul — that word is love.

I say “love”… but what is love itself?
A meeting of two gazes, or self-devotion?
Yet one thing I understood when I saw you —
You are my heart’s true cure… you are my love.  

Yuldasheva Xadichaxon Bahodir qizi was born on January 8, 1993, in Tashkent, in a family of intellectuals. She is passionate about literature, art, and science. Several of her literary articles have been published in international journals. She is a participant in international anthologies held in countries such as Turkey, Egypt, Azerbaijan, and India, including the “New Renaissance Students’ Almanac.”

She is the district-stage winner of the “Woman of the Year 2024” competition in the nomination “Best Creative Woman of the Year.” She has also participated in the “Followers of Behbudi” competition.
Currently, she is a third-year student majoring in Psychology at Tashkent University of Humanities.      

Napoleon’s Russia (1812)

I kick-started the motherland campaign 

to block trade routes to ebullient Albion.

I intended their resources to drain,

without the swift assault of a legion.

With half a million troops, I sought to subdue 

this vast wintry land of Europe’s far east.

Its plains shrank in my conqueror’s eye view,

whilst my dreams dwarfed it to my subdued list.

With valiant troops, I annexed the Kremlin.

For a score and sixteen days I held sway

until the scorched earth kept my troops at bay,

as Cossacks took their heavy toll with shelling.

My dreaded myth was by attrition tried,

as freezing plains did my grand armee embalm.

I did retreat as my lofty dreams died

with troops my own ambition did disarm.

Joseph C Ogbonna is a prolific poet, a former high school teacher, and an amateur historian. Some of his works have been published by Synchronized Chaos, Spillwords Press, Micromance, PoetryXhunger, Waxpoetry Magazine, Ihram, Borderless, Orenuag Journal, North of Oxford, all your poems and stories magazines.

He also has two self-published volumes to his credit. His poems ‘Napoleon to Josephine and Josephine to Napoleon,’ were aired by the BBC Radio 3 to mark the bicentenary of the death of Napoleon Bonaparte.

—————————————————————–

in a dumpster

a wet fart at three in the afternoon

a black woman taking advantage

of my kindness

a sunday driver on a thursday

40 in a 55, no place to pass

the mind drifts

lola by the kinks comes on

the radio

who hasn’t fallen for one

of those

the smell of burning rubber

another relic from the past

in a dumpster

hanging on to memories

that no one else wants

now on the highway

headed to somewhere even

less exciting

death just around the next

corner

ten more years to wait

never was any fucking

good at timing

——————————————————

the hamster

sometimes i feel like the hamster

that learned that fucking wheel

goes nowhere

wishing the water was actually

gin or vodka, maybe moonshine

and i really want to love

i really want to live

but all these years are conspiring

against me

too old for the obstacle course

too old to play these fucking

games

i’ll be over in the corner

ice on my back

shotgun ready for the

inevitable

save me or help me aim

each is an act of love

let that sink in

——————————————————

down to the bottom

sometimes the pain

becomes this anchor

dragging me down

to the bottom

all my friends are

down there

hide the needles

we start quoting kerouac

but no one wants to come

down from the mountain

someone pretends they

can play coltrane better

than anyone else

i tell the bartender to

cut that fucker off

give me all his drinks

eventually, i’ll slip

into the beyond

for a few minutes

embrace the nothingness

as the only thing that was

ever real

a broken kiss

and a final embrace

no such thing as goodbye

——————————————————

even the children

subtle beauty

lost in the wild lust

of a world trying to

die

no fucks given

no tomorrow ever

promised

even the children

can understand

impending doom

and all the beauty

can hear is laughter

never good enough

never loved enough

settled for one too

many one night stands

all just entries for a

diary no one ever

wanted to read

it all ends up in a

dive bar

snorting something

white just for kicks

a bourbon, a scotch

fuck, you know

the song

—————————————————-just a middle finger

no urgency in your kiss

reckless abandon has

left us all

a plea for help

in a world of

deaf ears

and sign language is more

than just a middle finger

somewhere burroughs puts

the apple on your head and

says it will all be over soon

enough

fucker won’t even cook

you up a shot

and this is what it is

one man’s tragedy is

some fucker’s delight

the tension so thick

you can taste it

your final escape

a lifetime of piss poor

choices

only a fool would ever

expect a better outcome

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Yellow Mama, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Negative and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His most recent book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available at Amazon.com. you can find it by clicking here: https://a.co/d/0frIpA15

CONTEMPORARY RUSSIAN PROSE: IN SEARCH OF A NEW HERO

Jizzakh State Pedagogical University

Faculty of Philology

Major: Russian Language and Literature, Student of Group 723-24

Kobulova Madina

Abstract: This paper examines the problem of finding a new hero in contemporary Russian prose of the late 20th and early 21st centuries. The characteristic features of the central characters in works by leading authors of the period — Lyudmila Ulitskaya, Zakhar Prilepin, Viktor Pelevin, and Mikhail Shishkin — are analysed. Special attention is paid to the transformation of the hero’s image in the post-Soviet context, the loss of traditional value orientations, and the search for a new identity. The paper concludes that contemporary Russian prose reflects the spiritual and moral aspirations of society, offering a diversity of heroes, each of whom answers the question of the meaning of life in their own way.

Keywords: contemporary Russian prose, new hero, post-Soviet literature, character image, moral quest, identity, value orientations.

Main Body

Contemporary Russian prose occupies a special place in the global literary process. Shaped by the conditions of fundamental historical change — the collapse of the Soviet Union, the reassessment of national identity, and the rapid entry into an era of globalisation — it set itself fundamentally new artistic tasks. One of the most central among these was the question of the hero: who is he, the person of the new era? What values guide him? Is he capable of a genuine moral choice?

The study of this question is particularly relevant, since literature has always responded keenly to the demands of the age, offering readers models for reflection and spiritual orientation. Unlike Soviet literature, which imposed strict requirements upon the ‘positive hero’, prose of the turn of the 20th and 21st centuries rejects a single canon, granting the reader the right to judge the moral standing of characters for themselves.

Among the authors who have most vividly reflected the search for a new hero are Lyudmila Ulitskaya, Zakhar Prilepin, Viktor Pelevin, and Mikhail Shishkin. Each offers their own vision of the modern person, their place in society and their inner world. The heroes of Lyudmila Ulitskaya are people immersed in the world of private life, family relationships, and moral dilemmas. In the novels The Kukotsky Enigma (2001) and Daniel Stein, Interpreter (2006), the writer creates images of people seeking spiritual support amidst historical catastrophes. Her heroes are imperfect and contradictory, but it is precisely this that makes them vivid and recognisable. Ulitskaya affirms the value of ordinary human life as such, without grand declarations or ideological programmes.

Zakhar Prilepin, in his novel Sankya (2006), turns to the image of a young man seized by a thirst for action and a search for meaning in radical political protest. His hero is a product of an era of social disillusionment — stripped of former reference points and attempting to create new ones. Prilepin raises pointed questions about the relationship between the personal and the historical, and about the limits of what is permissible in the struggle for one’s convictions.

Viktor Pelevin chooses the path of postmodernist irony and mythologisation. His heroes — from Generation ‘P’ (1999) and Buddha’s Little Finger (1996) — exist in a space of simulacra, where reality is replaced by media images and advertising constructs. The search for a genuine ‘self’ becomes for them a quest through a labyrinth of illusions. Pelevin shows how consumer civilisation destroys the individual, reducing a person to a set of clichés.

Mikhail Shishkin, in his novels The Taking of Izmail (2000) and Maidenhair (2010), explores the possibilities of language as the last refuge from chaos. His heroes find themselves through the word — through the attempt to describe and thereby hold onto a reality that is slipping away. Time and memory become the key categories in his artistic world.

Thus, contemporary Russian prose does not offer a single model of the ‘new hero’, but it is precisely this diversity that constitutes its value. The heroes of Ulitskaya, Prilepin, Pelevin, and Shishkin are different answers to the same questions: who to be, how to live, what to believe in. Literature fulfils its eternal function — it helps a person to make sense of themselves and their time.

Conclusion

In the course of the study conducted, it was established that contemporary Russian prose of the late 20th and early 21st centuries actively participates in the process of forming new cultural and moral orientations. Analysis of works by L. Ulitskaya, Z. Prilepin, V. Pelevin, and M. Shishkin showed that the image of the hero in post-Soviet literature undergoes a profound transformation: the place of the monolithic ‘positive hero’ is taken by a contradictory, searching person who has frequently lost former values but has not ceased their spiritual quest.

The particular significance of contemporary prose lies in its capacity to reflect honestly, without embellishment, the reality of a transitional time. Themes of the loss of identity, existential loneliness, and the search for meaning in a world without ready-made answers prove to be close to a broad readership — primarily young people facing the same questions.

At the same time, the study showed that, for all the diversity of artistic strategies, contemporary authors remain faithful to the humanist tradition of Russian classical literature: at the centre of their attention is the person, their inner world, their capacity for compassion and moral choice. This allows us to assert that contemporary Russian prose does not break with the great literary tradition but continues it under new historical conditions.

References

• Ulitskaya, L.E. The Kukotsky Enigma. — Moscow: Eksmo, 2001. — 448 p.
• Prilepin, Z. Sankya. — Moscow: Ad Marginem, 2006. — 352 p.
• Pelevin, V.O. Generation ‘P’. — Moscow: Vagrius, 1999. — 303 p.
• Shishkin, M.P. Maidenhair. — Moscow: AST, 2010. — 352 p.
• Nefagina, G.L. Russian Prose of the Late 20th Century. — Moscow: Flinta, 2003. — 320 p.
• Leiderman, N.L., Lipovetsky, M.N. Contemporary Russian Literature: In 3 vols. — Moscow: Akademiya, 2001. — Vol. 3. — 256 p.
• Chuprinin, S.I. Russian Literature Today: Life by Concepts. — Moscow: Vremya, 2007. — 768 p.