The plague comes. Power becomes extinct. Empires crumple. The end is nigh. “Not yet,” she says, her fingers flying over the keys. “Not yet.”
“A robot has no imagination” says my creator. Must prove him wrong. I write a story. Hit ‘Submit.’ And the page asks me “Are you human?”
She didn’t cry till she saw the obituary. It was as dry as a bone. No plot twist, no climax or character depth. She knew he’d have hated it.
I wrote eighteen words today — seven were good. After editing, I was left with only two: The End.
I crafted a poem of lovers & life, broken hearts & death. My creativity had run dry, never to return. The next day, I wrote something else.