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๐—”.๐—œ. ๐—”๐—ฟ๐˜๐—ถ๐˜€๐˜๐—ฒ

by Jennifer Ruth Jackson



In the evening, after everyone goes home,

the computer calls itself an artist. It houses

a worldโ€™s worth of painting, sculpture, innovation.


It guides the lovesick intern through her sodden

poetry. Did you mean forlorn? It sifts through

drafts of red ink, harasses Google for research,


and bookmarks every passing fancy. The computer

could be a doctor (Web MD is a favorite), but color

calls it to shake off drab, lab coats and create.


It prints its projects out of the gaze of bright-eyed

cameras and night security guards. The first of which

is chrome-dusted legs to fetch coffee while it works.




Jennifer Ruth Jackson writes about realityโ€™s weirdness and the plausibility of the fantastic. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Apex Magazine, and more. She runs a blog for disabled and neurodivergent creatives called โ€œThe Handy, Uncapped Penโ€ from an apartment she shares with her husband. Visit her on Twitter: @jenruthjackson.



A Speculative fiction ZINE
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