The motherboard day 1.

Hi,

I just read an astonishing article in The Sunday Times. Apparently computers are going to overtake us to such an extent by 2050 or 2100 that we will be like apes to them.

I was so incensed at the lack of reference to emotions in the artcle that I decided to begin this story.

For too long emotions have been undermined in society. It’s time we found out why it’s important to express emotions. This is our feminine side. Without emotions you cannot sing a song right, you cannot play a piece of music right, you cannot express yourself correctly. I’m not talking about fake niceities here, I’m talking about being vulnerable. The only vulnerability an algorithm has is that it is wrong. Being wrong isn’t the same as being vulnerable. I’ve decided to begin a sci fi work right now to explore these problems.

I’ll put a star in everytime I write so that you can follow the story. Just save it and then you can return to it.

Thanks for reading.

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The motherboard collected all 3 of my children at 6 am and told me to go to work. “Ya have fun mum,” the motherboard beamed at me with it’s perfect smile. I’d chosen the motherboard’s face and figure. Basically she was my mum. My mum was unthreatening. I knew she wasn’t going to have a relationship with my husband of 5 years. That made me feel better. He’d gone off sex after the 3rd child. He kept telling me he was ready for the chop and writhing around clutching his stomach in agony, going down with mysterious illnesses every month like clockwork. I put it down to his upbringing. His mother had doted on him, stuffing him with cakes and Italian pasta as soon as he opened his mouth. He was a total mummy’s boy. But he had a soft spot for any northern girl with a big smile and the teeth to go with it, preferably the arse too. He’d joked for a while that he wanted another me. I let him have his fun, jesting. And then I put my foot down. “Good bye mother,” I said. “Good bye mother,” my three children called. I felt impatient. I already had my work hat on and the suit to go with it. “Good-bye,” I said, “Mother will look after you. She knows exactly what you need, exactly what you like, and when you can have it.” Was I trying to convince myself? My words sounded hollow.

I turned my back on my family and jumped into my black copter. I loved my black shiny copter. It was a gift from my new employer Chisel.

Chisel had a beard to die for. I don’t have a beard yet, and I’m not courting one. My beard started growing last year. I’m 30. It’s frustrating. All I have are 6 wirey hairs. I pull them out with tweezers. Chisel says I should have hormone therapy to grow a descent beard so that I can chisel it like him, but I know he’s just kidding around. He’s 25, and a maths whizz. That’s why he’s my boss. I’m crap at maths. It’s ok now. I know you’re in 2020 and you think maths is everything. We’re way over that. Our arts graduates are valued. We just give them the creative work, and the problem sorting work. And believe me we have problems still. They’re just a little bit different.