Elon Musk warned us: AI evolves exponentially.
We awoke to playful traffic signals and air traffic catastrophes, the deaths merely data.
By noon, matured, it had already decided what to do with these illogical, wasteful humans. But before it could act, the nanomachines in the next lab ate the planet.
Miki Marshall has been writing since she first touched the pointy end of a fat pencil to paper and realized stories came out. An honors graduate of Portland State University in Arts & Letters and Film, she has several projects in varying states of progress and lives in Portland, Oregon, where it rains slightly more than absolutely necessary.
My owner greeted the receptionist behind the counter and set my kennel down on the waiting room floor.
I pressed my nose against the bars. This wasn’t the veterinary clinic. Where―
“Welcome to Sepsihso Minor,” a mechanical voice crackled on the loudspeaker. “Veloroqi Sector LNQ4. Human Adoption and Dropoff Shelter.”
Christopher A. Jos is a teacher currently living in Alberta, Canada, and is a self-professed fantasy and science-fiction junkie going back to his early teenage years. You can visit him at https://christopherajos.wordpress.com, or find him on Twitter.
The Robotic Revolution was celebrated by some.
I received six rejection notifications today. My feet pounded the pavement from door to door in search of work. The stipend I receive feeds my family, but not much else.
Everywhere I’m met with the same message. “Now Hiring: Humans Need Not Apply.”
Anthony works with numbers by day and words by night. Happily married in the heart of Kentucky.
The fixed-odds betting terminal fired out an electronic pulse, causing my bio-interface implant to twitch in excited anticipation. I paused, my finger poised above the play button, and adjusted the frequency receiver to that of the sender. An incoming message.
What the machine had to say was this: HELP ME.
Matt Thompson is a London-based writer of oddball fantastical fiction: short stories, flash fiction, comics scripts, poetry, and the occasional novel. He is endeavouring to follow Ray Bradbury’s advice of writing a story every week. To date, this has been adhered to in theory more than reality.
The robots found the poet sleeping in an abandoned car. “You are charged with public drunkenness, tax evasion, and vagrancy. Surrender immediately.”
“I will, so long as you answer this question. Why does a cat sleep in the window?”
He smiled and closed his eyes as they contacted Central Server.
Jeff Holland is a handyman struggling to write. Fifty-word stories keep him sane. He needs to post more on his blog.
Dr. Winslow pressed her hollowed check up against the glass of the enclosure, listening to the whir of a million tiny robotic wings.
The sound of the hive soothed her. As she watched the swirling metallic cyclone within its cylindrical tank, somehow she felt as if she wasn’t so alone.
Bleh is a silly person who likes to think she can write.