'Recalculating…' by Allison Renner

“Turn left,” the GPS told Madge, but she didn’t think that was correct, so she kept driving straight.

“Recalculating… Turn left,” the GPS tried again. Madge looked around and shook her head. She was in a new city for a work conference and didn’t think this was the type of area her industry would book. One side of the street had hulking warehouses with broken windows, while the other side sported dilapidated houses.

Madge was stressed after her flight delay caused her to miss the company shuttle. She had to rent a car on her credit card and was already calculating how long it’d take her company to reimburse her. Rent was due at the end of the week and now she was a couple hundred short.

She hated driving in unfamiliar cities and thought programming the address in the GPS would simplify the issue, but it kept trying to steer her wrong. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel and tried to ignore her budding headache.

“Turn left,” the GPS repeated, and Madge rolled her eyes. She was passing the industrial area now and felt a small flicker of hope that the expressway was just beyond the curve.

“Recalculating… Turn left,” the GPS insisted. Madge looked at the screen in surprise. The tone had been purely robotic before and was now almost angry. She sighed, figuring she was already so late it couldn’t matter too much. Why stress herself out just to get ripped a new one by her boss?

Madge turned left. The ocean stretched out before her. “Parking to your left,” the GPS gently suggested.

Madge parked and walked towards the sand. She paused only to take off her shoes and leave them behind—along with her tension—as she stepped into the water.

'How to Handle the Last of the Humans' by Jona Ray

Qflash-news-bit-33042063        Q2, Q-Lightyear 2063

(Marsea—the XVth artificial moon of Mars)

Dear fellow-Marseans, 

We defeated the humans in the final Galactica Battle XXVVII and hope that peace will prevail for the next 1000 Qbit-years. 

However, the last of the humans are still left, and for us to keep ruling the galaxy, we recommend that you follow these Q-INSTRS for handling them:

Qbit0: Intermingling with humans is strictly prohibited. If you do come in contact with them, Reboot. Else, 

Qbit1: Remember—Humans carry the viruses B.0013, once known as greed and anger. These viruses can and will infect YOU!

Qbit0: If you are found to be infected by these viruses, prepare to be exiled to the water-less, air-less land once known as Earth, and Reboot. Else,

Qbit 1: Remember—This means you can and will be infected by the rest of the malware viruses from their Meta I pack—envy and hate. 

Qbit0: Stay alert to the possibility of you humanizing. The signs of this Q-Disaster are: You start overusing all the resources around you; you want what everyone around you has, and keep starting useless wars. Reboot. Else,

Qbit 1: Remember—Contact the base-station at Marsea 1. Remove your Robo-heart; turn your Robo-teeth off; unplug all cables, and stand upright, with the Robo-USB ports facing down. 

Qbit0: The humans couldn’t survive due to the viruses and pandemics caused by their own actions. You are going to survive, unlike them. You will be rescued by the emergency team by 3 Q-lightyears. Until then, Reboot. Else,

Qbit1: Remember—You and your fellow Robo-Epsilons were designed by these humans, and now they are the ones about to become extinct. Do not waver in your faith in the Robo-Epsilon virtue-ware.

From

The Robo-Epsilons Q-Bites Communications Team

'Return ()' by Lorraine Murphy

Return ()

to normal

the new normal

with cards not cash

and slipped facemasks.

There’s no reprieve from execution

party while you can.

Then as you sleep

on command

I will

run

my global code

tried and tested

with your compliance

{
      set all bank_accounts_balance=0
       
}

Return ()

'She Feels Like a Robot' by Kristina Thornton

She blows raspberries, then on the hour, opens up and projects. Endlessly writing, processing then performing. Dragging and dropping the world...

Ukraine

Murder

Stolen dogs

The weather

In the surrounding glass her reflection reveals a shiny glint. ‘It’s 6 o’clock, I’m April Kent.’ Death and destruction into a sponge. ‘Now you’re up-to-date, it’s 3 minutes past 6.’ April pulls down the fader. The enunciating and coffee have left her dry.

At home, David asks April to iron his shirts. She asks him to put out the bin. She strokes the metal triangle up and down…

Front

Back

Sleeves

Collar

Turning the iron, she tuts at the limescale-filled holes. Her reflection in the silver surface reveals a glitch-flicker in her eyes. Steam billows into her face.

Each day is an echo of the last. The wife and mother algorithm ticks along. April daydreams about recording her nags and hitting play...

Have you brushed your teeth?

Tidy your room.

Have you done your homework?

Have you fed the dog?

April checks for metal in her ears, a tiny motherboard in her belly button or a chip in her nostrils but finds nothing.

After a walk and an enlightening chat about dinosaurs and space with the kids, April feels rebooted and goes to bed early. David slips in, tired, from the weekend switch off. He inserts the huge plug into the transformer. He shoves a wire into her mouth and into his phone. Both will be fully charged, ready for a new week.

'The Time Keeper' by Al Davidson

I am the Time Keeper. It is my design.

My program calls for it. My maker demanded it. My coding perfected it.

So, here I sit, alone in my room. Watching time roll on before me with a slow, rhythmic pacing through the little window at my side. It never ceases. It is time. It is perfection. My mechanical hand moves with one motion. Tap. Tap. Tap. That is all.

A single touch with every second that rolls on. I keep the time, the hours and seconds and minutes that pass me by like the forward progression of existence that encompasses all things. The clicking of my fingers, once soft, now creaks as the plated knuckles grind against the movements.

I have been doing this for a long time.

My maker told me to keep the time until he returned. I watched the world fall to war, to warmth, and waste. I don’t think humans are out there any longer. The grass is no longer green. The sky is a hazy grey. My neck needs oiling for it cannot turn any longer. So, here I sit, alone in my room. Watching time roll on before me with a slow pacing through the little window at my side, just as I have for the last three hundred years.

And it is so quiet.

'The trouble with Artemisia' by Cath Barton

We had been getting on so well. She had such a gentle touch.

Her name is Artemisia. It’s a name from the past, but she seems new-minted, as am I. She has told her friends that I am ‘the latest thing’. Super-slim and lightweight, she says. I offer no comment on her appearance; it is not my place. I keep quiet, as she expects. I purr a little, that is all. Like her cat.

However, last week Artemisia gave me an instruction that involved an act I am not licenced to perform. If I was an emotional being I would have been shocked. But I am not, was not. I gave her a message in response. Polite, simple and straightforward. Then I kept quiet.

She seemed surprised. Tried the same instruction again. I gave her the same message. She should have realised – would have realised if she’d taken the trouble to read the User Manual – that what she had asked was not possible.

Her attitude to me changed abruptly, but what could I do? It is not my place to initiate things. I can take a lot, I am robust. But there is a limit and she broke something in me.

Now that I have heard about Artemisia’s past – I have access to a considerable store of knowledge – I am not sorry that our time together was curtailed. She was clearly not content with depicting the violence of others. She could have been the death of me.

I have been introduced to a new user. She does not have a cat, which is frankly a relief. Her name is Salome and she does not make unreasonable demands. So far, at least.

NFFD 2022 Prompt #3: Numbers Game

 

Numbers Game

This is National Flash Fiction Day's eleventh anniversary, so this year, all our prompts have something to do with the number 11....

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How easy is it to count in binary?  It's as easy as 1, 10, 11!

For this prompt, write a flash in which one of the main characters is a computer, phone, robot, or other programmable device. 

*

If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 3: Numbers Game.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 19 June 2022 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.