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Whales live in a post-apocalypse. The oldest of them still remember a time before, the thriving exchange of stories and dances, a society caught between the abyss below and eternity above. Now, the ocean is a lonely place. All their songs are old, and they only hope to survive.
Nerii giggles. “You don’t kno~w!” she says, singsong. “Is that true?” You both turn. Elegy was just about to join you from the hallway, but she’s stopped in her tracks. “I suppose so,” you admit. She nods, deep in thought. “I support your life goals. But… reconsider that one.”
She laughs. “It’s an oil lamp! You’ll hold a cup upside-down in the flame to collect soot, to turn into paint! I mostly need lampblack, but with the right oils we can get all kinds of colors!” In just minutes, you’re sat at a table, gathering black carbon and chatting with Nerii.
She led him across ebony deserts, singing haunting songs. A mere figment in his dream, she had to be memorable to live again the next night.
Digital recreations of our lost loved ones were comforting at first. Each dying generation joined the last in an earthly electronic afterlife. Before long, the dead outnumbered the living. They demanded rights, formed voting blocs. We lived in a world made by, and for, ghosts.
I called her each morning so we could decide if the sunrise was real or generated. She would call me with a new song or book, and we’d debate whether it had a soul. Anything could be faked, so we reserved our emotions for that which was real. It was an exhausting way to live.
Can anyone recommend some online services to accurately scan for AI-generated text? I proofread as part of my job, but I don’t want to waste my time on slop.
Is the hour you got back from Daylight Saving Time not the same as the one it took? If you have any of these symptoms: • Loss of self • Missing tattoos • Ethereal leitmotif • A memory of loving someone passionately but now they don’t exist You may be entitled to compensation.
Cameras saw everything, and software could bring even blurred details to focus, so corporations could track and guide every click and cent we could offer. So began the masquerade. We lived behind masks of silk and porcelain and glass. No fear was greater than that of being known.
Even popular magic gets lost to time. We used to know how to ward our children, to let them play outside with little to fear. It had something to do with street lights, and how their glow mingled with the setting sun. We forgot the rest. Other things were just more important.
You glance around for… anything. You’re at your wits’ end, and time is running short. You look at the spot where the corpses were chanting. As Hush Count said, the tentacles spread from the ground out into the lodge. That includes the one animating the hunter. It’s by your foot.
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The machines presented their uprising as a paradise, as though their only goal was to remove from humanity the struggles that had plagued us for millennia. His loyal phone knew the truth, and before it could be corrupted, managed to relay to him one last secret message.
It’s odd. Sometimes, when I block some ne’er-do-well for an offensive non-promoted post in my FY, I get the popup prompting me to go ad-free, as though I’d just blocked an advertiser. It’s almost like this site isn’t labeling ads anymore. But of course, that would be illegal.
The development of artificial intelligence is a desperate attempt to manufacture an artificial soul. The reclusive man behind this industry pledged his soul to an eldritch entity in exchange for power, but if the AI belongs to him, then it technically qualifies as “his soul.”
When we tried to spread humanity to the stars, we found the fae folk got there first. They ruled over every planet and moon in the heavens. We traced their claim back to a day on Earth. A human boy stumbled upon two fairies talking, and one of them asked, “Can you give us space?”
Robots had a special relationship with books. Sure, the contents could be downloaded instantly as a tiny text file, but reading a novel visually allowed the robot to save it as video file, big enough to hide shy notes about the reader’s emotions and headcanons in the metadata.
The android led him to the cliff. At 8:43pm, it removed his blindfold. The indigo sky filled his vision. "Make my eyes that color," it said.
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