Machine Music

"Why do I have to learn piano if in five years all music's going to be made by AI anyway?"

Gale generally enjoyed his life as a piano instructor, but his sessions with Kimberly were an exception. She was the kind of student who constantly wasted his time and purposefully avoided practice, so even her warm up scales grated on his nerves.

"AI doesn't know the first thing about writing actual music. It's just a bunch of sounds that vaguely resembles a real song. Art can't be created by a machine."

"But my biology teacher says humans are machines too."

Guardian Angel

Hank takes his job seriously. He clocks in every day on time, and stays exactly how long is required of him. So what if he never volunteers for overtime? There are plenty of colleagues eager to cover for him.

Hank never drinks to excess while on duty. Sure he may get a little tipsy on occasion, but not to the detriment of his charges, who remain his top priority. If anything, drinking in moderation calms his nerves and makes him more effective at angeling.

Yes, he sometimes parties with some friendly devils, but he's trying to convince them to repent.

Numb

“I’m so sick of pain, Gene. I wish I couldn’t feel at all.” With a shaky sniffle, Emily stroked the black fur of Gene’s chin, eliciting his tractor purr.

She may never fully recover, the doctors said. They called it transverse myelitis. Emily preferred less polite terms.

Gene‘s glowing eyes slid closed. Emily’s followed.

She awoke to a ringtone, heart pounding. Her thoughts reached for the phone inches away on the sofa.

Not a muscle twitched. No sensation, as though her nerves had died. The phone fell silent. Gene‘s stare blazed with yellow light.

Gene...

In her mind, Emily screamed.

From Guest Contributor Michelle Cook

Confession

I did it. I killed her in cold blood. I hesitated at first, but she finally got on my nerves.

She tickled my ears, sat on my lap, and touched my private body parts. I asked her to stop but she kept going.

I slapped her in the face. She dropped onto the floor at once. Her skinny, crooked legs twitched a few times in utter disbelief and then she went silent. I picked her up, dropped her dead body in the garbage can, washed my hands, and went back to work.

My office is a “No-Fly Zone.” No exceptions.

From Guest Contributor, Olga Klezovitch

Olga is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Necon E-Books.