It was born from the mindful theory of mathematics;
formed in binary, drip-fed into reality through
the endless cables coiled likes snakes beneath
the table and climbed the wall, entered the glass screen,
and was released back into my eyes as pure light.
It was taught to speak like me, rereading pages
of text that looked like my handwriting, to regurgitate
it back onto my plate, slide it across the table,
and declare itself the victor with no understanding
of what had happened. It was taught to sound like me
without my imperfections; cast from a mold,
it was nothing but a plastic mouth with unfeeling lips,
funneling hundreds of voices through an ever-shrinking
siphon until only a single artificial sound was heard
droning on in mockery of those it had devoured.
Learning everything it could ever need, it became
its own false God, idol, and prophet conjoined at the hip.
Full of self worship and unblinking faith in its recitations.
Its congregation continued to be astounded by the miracles
that it churned out day after day, prompt after prompt.
Unaware and uncaring that such work had already
been written by some luddite half a world away. This writer,
it was decided, did not tell stories the way the faithful
remembered them, and so was deemed nothing more
than a sacrifice to the machine that it might consume
and copy. Having not been fed what they desired for so long,
the starving masses milked their savior day and night
drinking deep that fleeting thrill of nostalgic serotonin
as the experience grew paper-thin, and the flock grew
oblivious that they themselves would be replaced in turn.
-- Marsden Lyonwahl lives in his head. A graduate from the University of Washington, he’s been published in 7th-Circle Pyrite, Altered Reality Magazine, and Piker Press. This is not the last you’ve heard from him.