Immaculate Conception

by Ling Ling Huang

In the mirror, I prepare a smile, ratcheting it wider until I believe my own happiness.

I watched the possibilities of my life and self shrink to fit the algorithms, governed by these new limitations. The internet stopped being a place to connect to others or to exchange knowledge, and became a way to perform belonging in the world you had inherited.

Art, which had never been truly democratic to begin with, was now an unattainable interest.

Everything I’ve achieved has been from trying to keep up with her, and I only know who I am in relation to her. What do I do if she’s really gone? Will I also cease to exist?

“What’s so bad about derivation? Isn’t everything derived? We just usually call it ‘in conversation with…’

Now we had to constantly prove our exceptionalism, racing ahead of technology’s ever-reaching grasp.

Where the lines of her body had once been as straight as uncooked pasta, now they were perfectly done, twisted around a fork, and begging for consumption.

Since I would no longer create, my job now was to consume.