Creator of Fictions

There was the ever present electric buzz all around him. The machine's whirl and flicker the only clues to all the esoteric processes that run in the background keeping everyone alive. He was hustling through his morning work hoping to finish before the first reset warning.

For as long as he could recall the reset warnings came every four hours or so. It was odd that they should be so consistent and that the battle against the constantly evolving viruses didn't have any variance.

As he thought of it, he had to admit to himself he didn't actually know for sure that the battle was still raging on. After all, the reset warning could be totally automated, in no way a response to something happening, but an anticipation for a potentiality.

He didn't have the time to put too much thought into it. He really wanted to get this story done. Sometimes the reset process would cause his aging computer to lose his work. If he didn't submit it before the reset he may have to start from scratch.

He felt guilty about it, the feeling of wanting to finish his story. He knew that it didn't actually matter in the grand scheme of things. Of course, creating content matters but the nature of the content doesn't matter at all. He could write about anything as long as the grammar and general organization of the story flowed in a way that it felt natural. The content could be about old technology like the transmissions they put in fossil fuel-burning automobiles. Or he could write about skinning rabbits. Not that he knew what a rabbit was but he could look it up.

The story he wanted to finish was about a woman named Barb who lived in a city like the one he lived in. She happened to see the last remaining window to the outside without realizing it. He had never seen a window himself but he had read about them while sifting through older content looking for details and inspiration.

“FIVE MINUTE RESET WARNING, FIVE MINUTE RESET WARNING, FIVE MINUTE RESET WARNING” clanged the mechanical voice of the clock.

He inhaled fast and let out a little sigh. If he was going to finish he had better get on with it and stop daydreaming.

As he set to work his fingers flying across the keyboard he lost himself in the story. There was confusion and panic and unresolved questions, everything that he felt on a daily basis, but in beautiful fiction instead of the living drudgery of reality.

“Art imitates life, or life imitates art or everything is imitation. Something like that, who knows”...

His pondering was cut off by the reset warning.

“YOU MUST RESET YOUR PASSWORD NOW!”

He hit submit, punched in the new password, and reset his machine.

This process had become so automatic that it took mere seconds and he was done, sipping cold coffee substitute and leaning back in his chair. Everything went black for a moment and then all the lights flashed on and the buzzing resumed.

As he sipped at his cold coffee substitute he thought about his situation. He was one more missed entry away from being demoted to the editorial staff. That would mean the end of his creative outlet and the end of the little joy that he had in his dull dreary existence.

Without thinking, his fingers started tracing out the facts of his own personal narrative. Here was, this lonely man, his only joy inventing stories that no one else had any reason to care for. This solitary pleasure always hanging by a thread ready to fall into the mechanical authority of this system meant to keep him alive.

The so called system, the bureaucracy, the hive mind, the intention of everyone working to perpetuate life in the face of the threat from artificial intelligence and its perfect order. Was this battle and its regulations any better? It was, as long as he had this role as creator of fiction.

As long as he had desire, as long as stories came to him and he was able to type them out, he had something, he had meaning and purpose. With this, no matter how small and insignificant, he had reason to keep going and keep struggling against the threat of obsolescence. Desire and agency are enough to keep one alive.

“FIVE MINUTE RESET WARNING, FIVE MINUTE RESET WARNING, FIVE MINUTE RESET WARNING” the loud voice nearly knocked him out of his seat.

But he had his quota already. The story of his dilemma was typed out and sitting in front of him with 5 minutes to spare. Without a thought he hit submit.

He looked at his desk, the never empty cup of cold coffee substitute, and picked it up with a newfound presence of mind. He took a sip realizing he enjoyed this bitter drink.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He knew what to do now. Just write, speak his truth and let the words flow and everything would fall into place. He was slightly startled by this too, the realization that he was experiencing something unfamiliar.

He felt good.