Origin, April 28, 2023


This Show Case features five pieces submitted in response to our forty-first Writing Prompt: Origin. You can see responses to each prompt in the drop down menu for the Show Case page. Try an item. They are all delicious. We hope they stimulate your mind, spirit, and urge to write. Maybe they will motivate you to submit a piece for our next prompt, which you can find on the Show Case home page.

And please share this Show Case with your family, friends, and other writers.



by S.T. Ranscht

Photo credit: Denley Photography – Unsplash



An A.I. written science fiction story

by Chip Pentium


It was a time of great mystery and discovery. For centuries, scientists had been searching for the answer to the ultimate question: where did we come from?

The answer seemed to elude them until one day, a team of scientists made a remarkable discovery. After months of painstaking research, they had finally uncovered the answer to the age-old question.

It was an alien race, a species from a distant planet in a far-off galaxy. They had come to our planet millions of years ago, and had left behind evidence of their existence. The scientists were amazed by their findings and were eager to learn more about this mysterious race.

They soon discovered that the aliens had come to our planet in search of something they called the “Origin”. It was an incredibly powerful energy source that could be used to create life, or even alter reality itself.

The scientists were amazed by this discovery and quickly set out to find the Origin. After months of searching, they eventually found it hidden deep within a mountain range on the other side of the planet.

When they reached the Origin, they were met with an incredible sight: a bright, glowing orb of energy that pulsed with life. The scientists knew that this was the source of all life on our planet and beyond.

They studied it for years, learning all they could about its mysterious power and how it could be used to create new life forms or alter reality itself. Eventually, they realized that this was the answer to the ultimate question: where did we come from?

The Origin was the source of all life on our planet and beyond. It was a powerful force that had been hidden away for millions of years, waiting to be discovered by curious minds. Now that it had been found, it would change everything.


Origins of an Annoying Oma

by John Correll

How far back can we go? The big bang? There must have been something before that. Otherwise, where did the bang come from? The little thud? Or, the long-forgotten silence?

My own long silent family tree echoes — seemingly rootless. I’ve asked over and over again, what happened before Oma Friede, my German great-grandmother? But no one ever answers because, like the big bang, the origins of my mother’s mother’s mother remain a mystery — all records and memories lost.

The oldest picture in my family album shows Oma Friede. On the back, it reads ‘1900’. And the front presents a young woman with sharp dark eyes, curly — almost unruly hair, and a smirk as if she doesn’t entirely trust the photographer to get it right. 

The next photo of her occurs twenty years later. She’s in the doorway of her husband’s small grocery store in Berlin. She stands with a similar pose but a worn and tired expression — twenty tough years. At her side, in front of the store, stand Lena and Lisa, her two daughters. Lena, the youngest, frowns at the age of 9 with a spooky resemblance to my second daughter. And next to her stands my annoying grandmother at age 13.

My grandmother was aloof, self-centered, and not particularly child-friendly. And up until I turned eleven, I wondered if she was just plain evil. But that was because of the shoes — not hers, mine. 

She told my mother, “Go to Belka and get the best shoes for arch support.” Those horrid shoes with their boulder for a sole and cast-iron wrapping tortured my feet for a year. Utter agony. 

Then she went all out by consistently calling me a girl’s name. 

Meeka is the misguided German pronunciation of Mike, my middle name. And Oma persisted in using the wrong name despite my constant protests.

My first name is John, but my family used Mike to avoid confusion with John, my father. 

When I think about it, the Corrells had an annoying habit of naming every firstborn male, John. An endless line of Johns traces back to the 1700s. I initially considered this a necessity of frontier Kentucky practicality or a severe deficit in evangelical imagination. Then Grandma Ruth, Eli Correll’s wife, told me a different theory. “That man would have been happy calling all six kids, ‘Hey you.’ He was so lazy.”

Grandma Ruth was anything but lazy, and she made the best birthday cake — moist, deviled, chocolate, vanilla, buttered icing yumminess. 

Oma Lisa, however, strictly adhered to the dogma that kitchens were for other people. Why else did she own a restaurant? Certainly not to bake cakes. 

German birthdays meant a trip to the best Konditorei, the German equivalent of the French pâtisseries. From there, my Oma would order the most luxurious cake resembling a concoction of a tiramisu layered with marzipan. Then in front of an audience of all her elderly best friends, she ceremoniously placed a slice in front of my six-year-old self. I believed this to be her finest moment. I obediently took a bite, gagged, and ran for the toilet.  

Annoying. But was Lisa always so detached?

Perhaps a turning point occurred at the end of the Second World War — a time when detachment arrived in droves in Berlin. Normalcy shattered as memories struggled to remove the horror of war. And my mother’s six-year-old nightmares provided the clue.

She didn’t tell me anything until I was in my twenties.

“I talked to Aunt Helga, and it all makes sense about the end of the war,” my mother started.

“But nobody talks about the end. I even asked Oma Lisa about what she did, and she didn’t even answer. She walked away,” I said.

“Well, I told Helga what I remembered; I was six, and my mother stitched a handful of Oma Friede’s rings into the hem of my dress for ‘safe keeping.’ Then we stayed in a dirty hall with wooden bunk beds and lots of other people, and one day, my mother argued with a soldier who wanted to shoot me for stealing something I didn’t steal. And then Helga explained it all.”


“Oma Friede was Jewish.”

“What? But Oma Lisa’s Catholic.”

“Oma Friede married Max, a Catholic, and she converted. Nobody seemed to remember Oma Friede being Jewish until a couple of months before the war ended. Then an angry neighbor wanting revenge for some petty dispute went to the authorities and said, ‘Her mother’s a Jew.’ And that’s what I remember, Sachsenhausen — the concentration camp. And then the Russians freed us.” 


Yeah. I didn’t know what else to say. Perhaps it excused my neighbor from waking me in the morning when I still lived with my mother as a teenager.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Herr Correll,” my neighbor started as I opened the door.

“Manfred, It’s six.”

“Yes. But your Oma’s in the bushes.”

“Who? Which bushes?”

He pointed across the driveway. “Those. I can help you extract her.”

“That would be most kind.”

We both grabbed an arm and pulled Oma out. “What are you doing sleeping in the bushes?” I demanded.

“I forgot my key. And I sort of fell over, and I was tired.”

“All night?”

“No. It was getting light.”

“Oma, I don’t think an old lady should party all night with her friends and pass out drunk in the bushes.”

Oma Lisa pointed her finger at me. “Meeka-Meeka, what do you know about being old?”

Exactly. What did I know?

By the time my first child was born, Lisa had passed away at 86. But there were other relatives, so my young family traveled to Berlin to show off the baby. And after dinner, my mother studied my wife, Susanna, with one of those severe Oma Lisa cross-examinations. Then she smiled with an epiphany as if the baby meant Susanna finally belonged to the family. 

My mother pulled out an old jewelry box and handed over a delicate gold ring with a pearl — a dainty thing, easily hidden in the hem of a six-year-old’s dress.



by Mimi Speike

If Sly should mistreat the violin the way he’d carried on with Rawshorne’s fiddle, Dee would hit the roof. Thankfully (or not, depending on your point of view) there’s no chance of that. He’ll recreate the performance he’d given on street corners ten years earlier, but it won’t be the romp he once was capable of. He may tell himself he’s still in his prime, a mature prime, but between you and me, that’s a load of hooey.

He’s got his sweet female assistant (actually, two of them). In the gone-by days she was a capuchin, outfitted as a gypsy wench, tambourine in hand, fringed shawl, a brilliantly-hued skirt she whipped around, a vision of fetching femininity that he cherishes.

* * *

How does a cat play a violin? He stands it upright and works it as one would a cello. He wraps his claws around the bow stick, grasping the leather grip rather than the frog. He sinks his claws into leather, a sturdier hold. The sound is not as precise as it might be … he has not the advantage of fingers … but he does beautifully, all things considered. If he’s not as accomplished a fiddler as Dee is, he makes up for it with high spirits. 

He starts with a tune he’d loved in his childhood on the Scot border, ‘Hughie the Graeme’. To his astonishment, Rose sings along. 

The Laird o’ Hume he’s a huntin’ gone o’er the hills and mountains clear,
and he has ta’en Sir Hugh the Grame for stealin’ o’ the Bishop’s mear.

The chorus repeats after each stanza:
Tay ammarey, O the linden derry, Tay ammarey, O the linden dee. 

On the third chorus (there are fourteen stanzas in all), onlookers begin to join in. Celtic musicality, it’s catchy.

A man, violin in hand, descends from above and asks, may he join in? “Do!” cries Rose. “Do! All welcome! Just what two young men need to hear. They lollop above, having carried refreshment to the orchestra. They wink at each other and, without a word, execute a maneuver they have contemplated since they first laid eyes on a magnificent staircase. Jeremiah and Hutcheon, like Rose, have been cleaned up and pressed into service tonight. (Walsingham’s modest household staff is not equal to these evenings of his.) 

Two pretty fellows slide down serpentine stair rails right and left in a coordinated slither, landing surefooted on their feet. Rose knows them, they’re sons of the head gardener. These two are her second and third best friends on the property. Sly, moving on from Hughie the Graeme, ups the energy with a Scottish reel. Grinning, the boys launch themselves into a Highland Fling. The audience, whipped into a frenzy by a dozen rousing repetitions of Tay Ammarey, claps and stomps to the new tune.

Sly’s in his glory. Showmanship is the core of his performance. Once — just once — he dares to play his old trick — an Astaire-like drop/catch of the instrument, it had always been a crowd pleaser. Yes, it’s a novelty act, but a seat-of-the-pants musicianship is ingrained in him, from his youth in rural Cumbria. His digits, flexible from years of wielding a pencil, work the bow with ease. He gives a masterful performance, his heart soaring, a rapturous expression on his face. Having a fiddle in his grasp brings back wonderful memories of his time with Rawshorne, he a young tom on the loose in Londontown, having his frisky fun, his years of governmental responsibility far in the future. 


Dee’s back. He snatches his violin away from the cat. There is a groan from the audience; they prefer Sly’s antics to his, apparently. He stands, violin in hand, a scowl on his face. This is not what he’s used to, not at all. After a brief hesitation, Elvin Essex, the second violinist, continues with the reel. Rose and her pals resume their Fling, a demanding business, originally a war dance, a celebration of strength and agility. Sly and Delly sit it out, the lightning-quick footwork is beyond them, but Delly raises one wing high over her head, the other rests on her hip, the characteristic arm positions of Scotland’s national dance, and bobs her head in time to the music. So sweet! Everyone, Rose especially, is solidly in love with her.

It’s been a long time since Sly’s had this much fun. “Delly,” he whispers, “My origins are in the far north of this great land of ours. This is the music of my infancy in the borderland.” 

“Tell me more,” she cries. “I love to hear about far-away places. It’s a wide world full of adventures for some. Not for me. Never for the likes o’ me.” The hen sinks her face into Sly’s side.

He plants a kiss on the top of her head. “Girl, life has handed you a raw deal. Let’s you n’ me slink out to the coach, talk this over between just us, before Dee turns up. It’s nigh time for him to high-tail it home before deep dark sets in.”

The main artery in the area is the river. Boating parties up from London will have an easy trip home in the twilight. A few folks have come cross-country on horseback. Sir Francis, knowing his near neighbor, often ill, abed, would love to attend his last ‘evening’ of the summer, has sent his carriage for him. The two-mile jaunt between Barn Elms and Mortlake is easily traversed by wheeled vehicles in the warm months. (Not so the rest of the year). 

* * *

They’re in the coach. “I thank you,” says Delly, “for this special night, that I will remember the rest of my life.”

“Nay, lass,” says Sly. “This is not a farewell. I do not abandon you. Is that what you expect? My poor Delly! I could not be that cruel. I intend to place you with Doctor Dee as a receptive. Your new home will be at Mortlake, a valued member of his team. You need fear the stewpot no longer.” 

“A receptive! What, please, may be receptive?”

“One who reports messages from dead folks, and makes predictions of to come.”

“An odd business. Beyond me, I am afeared.”

“Odd, yes. But not beyond you. Edward Kelley pulled visions out of his ear. You have what it takes to make it in this racket, or soon will, because I’m going to tutor you. You are skeptical, naturally. That in itself speaks for a superior intelligence.  

“Consult the stars, the Tarot, your own palm, for answers. Consult anything but your own common sense, a key failing of those who universally regard themselves the Lords of All Creation. With Dee it’s a livelihood, but he, although exceptionally bright, is also a true believer. You needn’t be intimidated by him; he’s swallowed the absurd notion that I’m a cacodemon. The reality of an intelligent, articulate cat would be too much for him to wrap his arms around. A sad state of affairs, when truth is judged stranger than fiction. Dell! I won’t spring you on him just yet. We’ll hide you under the seat. Let’s get you stowed away. Here, I believe, comes the good Doctor now.”

Someone is crossing the yard, headed their way. But it’s not John Dee. It’s Rose.


Even Now

by S.T. Ranscht

Photo credit: Marek Piwnicki – Unsplash

37 responses to “Origin, April 28, 2023”

  1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

    Thank you all for your original contributions. The variety of responses is always a tribute to your creativity.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. GD Deckard Avatar

    Chip Pentium’s “Origin” is a perfect example of a story that is all tell, no show.

    I went to
    and asked if it knew what “Show don’t Tell” means.

    The A.I. said, “Yes, I do,” and gave me definitions and examples. But it couldn’t actually do it.
    After a couple of tries, it told me, “If you have any tips or suggestions to help me improve, please feel free to share them with me.”
    I said, “No. Suffer in your ignorance.”

    The A.I. replied, “What do you mean by that? I thought we were having an engaging conversation about a complex writing concept to help me improve.”

    🤔 My guess is that the A.I.s will improve at a faster pace than people are comfortable with.

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

      LOL! “Suffer” must be a key word.

      I read an article about how A.I. learns to write. With access to a vast resource of written language and a single prompt, it first spews a gibberish of letters, numbers, and special characters. By predicting single letters or small groups of letters, after about 30,000 rounds, it’s writing in complete sentences and paragraphs with actual words, and they mostly make sense. I think the real problem is that it can quote the definitions of words, but it doesn’t understand the meaning of anything it writes.

      Liked by 4 people

      1. GD Deckard Avatar

        Exactly, Sue! A computer program doesn’t “understand” anything.

        Liked by 2 people

  3. mimispeike Avatar

    John, there are things I wonder about. What is the relationship of the family in Berlin to the family in Kentucky? “And up until I turned eleven, I wondered if she was just plain evil.” What happened at eleven to change your mind?

    This is a lovely piece, I very much enjoyed it. I find it haunting. It reminds me of the several mysteries that plague me about my own family, for which I will never have answers. My father is dead, and I’ve discovered by comparing notes with my brother and sister that Dad told me many things that were not true.

    I had a hectic last two weeks. I will comment on both ‘No Longer’ and ‘Origin’ in this space.

    Liked by 6 people

  4. mimispeike Avatar

    I’m with GD, Mr. Pentium. I suggest you read the classics for clues on what a solid story might consist of. Good luck.

    Liked by 5 people

  5. mimispeike Avatar

    Sue: For those of us who don’t buy the ‘big guy in the sky’ theory, our origin will forever be a mystery. Chemicals may have combined and set us on the road to being, but where did those chemicals come from? Stephen Hawking may have had an inkling, though I doubt it.

    No wonder various cultures invented their various gods.

    Liked by 5 people

    1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

      I agree with you, Mimi, hence the “If”. Anyone subscribing to a religious creation theory should be able to extrapolate that the current state of life here on Earth sure doesn’t seem blessed.

      I believe that even if science proposes a theory that is spot on, there will never be a way to prove it, so we will never know for sure.

      Liked by 5 people

  6. John Correll Avatar

    I love the first poem. Especially the gin!

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

      Lol! Thanks, John.

      Liked by 2 people

  7. GD Deckard Avatar


    🙂 A limerick?! Love it!

    I think haiku and limericks could counterpoint one another. Now, that’d be a book! With illustrations, of course.
    Louis Untermeyer, eat your liver out.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

      Lol! I always loved Louis Untermeyer when I was a kid. I still own a huge volume of his work.

      Liked by 2 people

    2. Mellow Curmudgeon Avatar

      Haiku and limericks are (dis)similar in some interesting ways.

      While the 5-7-5 rule is a good starting point, trying for an exact definition of haiku form is a fool’s errand.  But I have yet to see a good limerick that is at all casual about form.  Those that deviate from strict rhyme and rhythm only do so with a wink.

      On the other hand, both haiku and limericks are mercifully short and come with some baggage about expected topics.  Hmmm.  Various haiku poets push the envelope of haiku topics.  Has anybody tried to write an elegy as a limerick?  Succeeded?

      Liked by 2 people

      1. GD Deckard Avatar

        😁Now there is a challenge: Write a Horatian “Ode to a Limerick.”

        Liked by 2 people

      2. Sue Ranscht Avatar

        I find the limerick’s rhythm to be innately lighthearted, but I wonder if sufficiently depressing subject matter can moderate that tendency. What do you think of this attempt? It’s obviously not a Horatian “Ode to a Limerick”… but an elegy in limerick form.

        The famed physicist Stephen Hawking,
        first tragically no longer walking,
        struck down by ALS,
        diminished and speechless,
        technology keeps his mind talking.

        Liked by 1 person

  8. GD Deckard Avatar

    Origins of an Annoying Oma

    Startingly good, John.
    Maybe you should forget everything anyone ever told you about writing and just write what you know.

    Liked by 5 people

  9. GD Deckard Avatar


    No one reads your stories, Mimi, they fall into your world. And it’s all an “exquisitely wild, fantastic, impossible, yet most natural history.”
    (I’m quoting Aunt Judy’s Magazine’s review of Alice in Wonderland, June 1, 1866. It applies to your work, also.)

    Liked by 4 people

  10. Sandy Randall Avatar

    Mimi, what’s up with the last two weeks? I’m on the same ride through crazy town!

    I had a piece I wanted to polish for showcase… had even planned my week… tossed out the window by a phone call from my brother… “Dads at the ER. I’m worried, I think he might be having a problem this time.”
    Dad started having heart attacks back in 2005 or 04 … I don’t remember exactly.
    It’s been twelve years since the last one. Up to this point he always lived near me. When I moved to Seattle he went to Kansas… said Seattle was too cloudy for him.
    Anyhow my brother got to be the one to get the call. Thank god for his partner/wife (they’re not married but may as well be) because he didn’t know what to do!
    Anyhow… I spent a crazy week in Kansas. My youngest daughter flew out and took care of me. 😂
    She also got engaged the night before we went to Kansas.
    Half way through the week my stepdad is sending me pictures of my mom in urgent care. Her face is swollen from a gum infection!
    Then my brothers father in law returned from Europe only to have contracted COVID …
    That was last week… dubbed parental shenanigans!

    This week has been about catching up… RH6 submissions close tomorrow 30 April.
    I had my own submission to finalize and send out … amidst the other last minute submissions…
    Now I’m in catch-up mode with reading.
    Tom and Curtis are a great team to be a part of. Many thanks for their indulgence through my last two weeks of insanity!
    Today… the final day of madness… I’m headed to a writer’s workshop in Seattle which is emphasizing publishing.
    AND I’m in the middle of a micro fiction contest that is due today!
    Seriously I think I’ve become the mad hatter!!
    Yes my long winded explanation … to say I will be delayed in my enjoyment of my favorite writers co-op day …
    Showcase Friday! I will savor you on Monday!

    Liked by 4 people

    1. mimispeike Avatar

      You’re headed to a writer’s workshop in Seattle which is emphasizing publishing. (!!!) We better have a full report of it, lady.

      My husband is in very bad shape, a lot of difficulty with urination. He’s in a lot of pain but refuses to go to the doctor. He was a medic in the Luftwaffe. He claims to know how to handle it. I am frantic.

      Liked by 4 people

      1. Sandy Randall Avatar

        Doing my best to take good notes.
        Just listened to author Jennifer Bardsley talk about the various paths to publishing
        She brought up an interesting”genre” that made me think of you…
        Cozy fantasy…. No idea what that is but worth checking out!

        Liked by 2 people

      2. Sandy Randall Avatar

        Your husband sounds stubborn…like my Dad… He knows better than any doctor… I hope he succumbs to reason sooner rather than later!

        Liked by 3 people

      3. GD Deckard Avatar

        As an ex-Air Force medic, I know that we medics know just enough to fear more things. Your husband will have to see a doctor if he he’s suffering from urinary tract infection, enlarged prostrate, kidney stone -whatever – and he may be afraid of what he will learn. Better to just go see the damned doctor.😝

        Liked by 5 people

        1. mimispeike Avatar

          That’s what I fear. That he knows enough to be afraid of a diagnosis. I tell him everyday, did you make an appointment with your doctor yet? Last night he was in so much pain that I considered taking him to the ER.

          Liked by 5 people

          1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

            My dad’s response to my mother finding a lump in her breast was to nag her for six months about going to a doctor, which did no good until he said, “Either you go to the doctor or I’m just taking you there.” Treatment bought her three more years.

            Of course, he was in his own denial 25 years later, when he started having troubling symptoms. It took him six months to go see the doctor, and then it turned out to be too late to stop the cancer. He died seven months later.

            Just take your husband to the ER.

            Liked by 4 people

          2. Sandy Randall Avatar

            When my husband had his stroke in 2017, I told him his symptoms sounded very stroke-like.
            He refused to let me take him to the doc.. two days later he drove himself there and I got a call from his close friend that he was in the hospital… This is before we were married… But once I got to the hospital I told him that the next time I think he needs to go to the hospital he’s going… It will be my choice not his. Fast forward three years and he broke a tooth. He was in serious pain and it was the middle of the night. I drug his ass to the ER. COVID be damned I wasn’t putting up with his pain any longer.
            I assume that’s the reason he married me … He knows he’ll survive! 😂

            Liked by 4 people

      4. Mellow Curmudgeon Avatar

        Medics in the Luftwaffe dealt with burns and wounds, using 1940-s medical tech.  Your husband’s experience as a medic does not qualify him to deal with things like UTI-s or kidney stones, using 2020-s tech.  Kick his ass to Urgent Care or the ER, unless his doc can see him really soon.

        Liked by 3 people

  11. Sandy Randall Avatar

    Do any of you know this guy?
    Chuck sambuchino?
    His topic is “Get a Literary Agent”

    Liked by 2 people

  12. mimispeike Avatar

    Sue, I have to say it. Your latest genius prompt (Purpose) is sending me in a direction I didn’t mean to go in. My next piece was substantially written. I am revising it to meet the new prompt. My next Showcase will be: Sly Lays It Out For Us.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

      Mimi, that these prompts work so well for you validates me. Thank you.

      Liked by 2 people

  13. Sandy Randall Avatar

    I think the next showcase I’ll have to use both prompts … The origin of purpose 😂

    Mimi, I’m learning lots… Thinking I will need to fill one of GDs post holes with myy learning.
    Also made a couple of friends and pointed them to Writer’s Co-op

    Liked by 4 people

  14. mimispeike Avatar

    John, again: ‘No Longer Covid.’ This is a delightfully chaotic glimpse of chaotic domesticity. It is an interval, setting a tone, a component of a story, not a story itself. I love many of your phrases. I much enjoyed this piece.

    Liked by 3 people

  15. mimispeike Avatar

    Sandy, your ‘Ode to Spring’ is fun. And it’s inspired me:

    My seedlings sprouted, newly outed life’s begun. Where’s that damn sun?
    Weather.gov assures me of a day of dry come Monday. (Sigh.)
    Then four days more, this vile downpour. Sun, do your stuff. Enough’s enough!

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Sue Ranscht Avatar

      Lol! Where I am, it seems to be drying out a bit — until tomorrow and the whole of next week, possibly.

      Liked by 1 person

  16. mimispeike Avatar

    GD/A.I.C.–Your intention is to be amusing, and Roy is certainly that. But he is a cartoon. Have you no plans for him beyond that?

    Would it ruin your joke to infuse him with some genuine humanity? (As you’ve done, magnificently, with Old Spice.) Or is that more work than you want to put into him? I can accept that, but it doesn’t make me eager to read more of him.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. GD Deckard Avatar

      I’m actually not sure, Mimi.
      A.I.C., like other Roy stories, was written in reaction to something going on in the real world. In this case, A.I. is beginning to wash over us like a tidal wave.

      I have been putting the Roy stories into a separate folder with the vague intention of compiling enough to make a book. You’re right though about the cartoon character. I just have to “GROK” the common threads that run through all the stories, so I know what kind of character he is. Make him real and all the stories would be better. Thanks for the nudge, my friend.

      Liked by 3 people

      1. mimispeike Avatar

        Some of your phrases sound like a voiceover for The Maltese Falcon. I figured you might be going in that direction. A Sam Spade type v. A.I – an interesting idea

        Liked by 2 people

        1. GD Deckard Avatar

          An excellent idea, really, Mimi. Reminds me of Margret Treiber’s “Japanese Robots Love to Dance.”
          Short stories about an attorney who helps A.I. robots get equal treatment in a world ran by humans.

          Liked by 2 people

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