The Next World of AI

“Do you think one box will be enough?” Hubby asked me as we finished the dishes.

I try not to roll my eyes, but half the time I wonder how he measured things. You can’t blame the metric system.

“No honey,” I said. “Our memories are larger than one box. We have to make sure the company has everything. Do you really want to forget about your childhood? Forget college?”

“Hmm,” he answered. “Forget our marriage?” he laughed, brightening his face.

“Oh, that’s not going to happen.” I playfully waved my fist. “I made sure the company had those packed in our positronic brains ahead of time.”

“You’re still my best decision I’ve ever made.” Hubby lifted me up like he had when we were young.

“Don’t,” I yelled. “You’ll get hurt!”

He slowly set me down. “So what, it won’t matter by next week. We’ll be pain free, and we’ll travel again. Just think, we’ll get to see the moon. I wonder if they have pickleball?”

“Well, you won’t get to know if you don’t finish packing.”

We sat down on our comfy recliners and placed the headsets on our heads to pack more memories, the little Memory Boxes.

I’m excited and I wondered what we’ll be able to see once we’re on the ship. I picked the pink Droid with golden rings on its temple hubby picked blue but with the same golden rings. We’re together in human form and machine. Soon, we’ll see the Moon and then Mars.

“Yep, you’re right.” Hubby grunted. “I’m on box nine. My pickleball days filled five.”

This time, I rolled my eyes.

They're Here


They are the Entozoon. These beings from Alpha Centauri. They will not hurt us. They feed on the bright multi-colors they see. Blue, Red, and greens. It’s simple. Don’t be afraid.

“So, they say,” whispered the ones hidden in the corners of the pubs and office cubicles.

Entozoon, our visitors are trying to bring peace to extend prosperity to Earth.

“So, they say,” whispered the ones in their homes to their children, dressing them in plain white or black clothes. No fancy blues or reds. Skip the playful animal motifs for now. Those were in the laundry or too small to wear.

The Entozoon are friendly!

“We will decide how friendly, after a year or more,” shouted the crowd in the streets, naked with warning signs, written in bold black letters. “Let’s see how hungry they get when there are no colors here on earth. Winter will be here soon. Let’s see and be ready.”

Photo via T. Gillmore

Seasons in the Family

Lea spoke to herself as she stood before the altar where bright red poinsettias decorated the marble steps and electric candles flickered by the rails.

“So, I’m the villain in this family of whispers or deafening silence, I’m the troublemaker. All because I pointed out the truth or tried to keep peace when they knew certain words would trigger my inner chaos.

I don’t call certain people. No, that’s a lie. I don’t call any of them.” Lea scoffed. “Because if I call one, they’ll be upset that I didn’t call the other. I stay away and I still feel sorry.

Politics in this family sucks. And I don’t mean the real politics of the world. It’s the pinning of siblings against each other. The accusations of cousins in texts and emails. The snickering afterwards that gets to me. So, I’m not perfect. Then again, neither were you.”

Lea looked up at the eight-foot statue. His arms were open as a greeting of peace and love.

“They think I don’t have a brain, all because I believe.” Lea sighed. “But I keep turning the cheek. Makes me wonder, are we more alike? Did you go through this? I’m here on my own, every Wednesday, by myself. And you know they’ll gossip. And you know, I won’t care anymore until next week.”

Lea smiled and inserted coins into the poor box. That felt good, and that’s good enough.

Photo via T. Gillmore

VICI - (VISION ONE’S Chopping Block. Bits yanked out from the novel.)


My name has no importance in these impoverished and polluted souls of Quivira. I have the gift that could purify nature. Fold the grief of the loss into tiny squares and tuck them away for the time being.

This modest seed in my hand could grow and nurture the soil of the burnt lands. Then, in time, children could play. Laugh the way their elders had in their youths. Family would join once again and flourish.

This seed, though, has value. The cost is not free. I’m not a fool. Do you agree?

All you must do is touch the tiny red dot on its skin. Can you see it? It’s right there in the center. I will do the rest. Fulfil everyone’s wishes for tranquility. 

Space to play. 


Perfect say, your world. That is my trade.

Touch and I will do the rest.

Photo by Nita:

The Forgotten Ballads


There are songs that remind us of friends, loved ones, and the impossible to love, yet we darkly do. 

The latter enlarge lumps in our throats as the melody sways and we bite our bottom lips, making believe the memory is nonexistent. 

We sing our hearts for everyone else, recalling their hairdos, their cars, and words of affection. 

Sometimes we say, this song belongs to my beloved.

But we speak only to those of approval; not from the past that will toss the song out of tune.

Not the ones who would give a turn of an eye, a click of a tongue, a snap of a word,

Really. Still. God.

We keep the unloved hidden.

They are a secret that says, no one’s business to hear.

Photo via T. Gillmore

Significance Common Courtesy


They sat alone under the apple tree and looked up for the very first time as They. The olive-green leaves, riddled with holes from the average beetle wars, still produced stems strong enough to flower a bouquet of fruit.

Not everyone likes an apple tree. In their eyes, branches grew unnaturally. Trees should be straight, trimmed appropriately to society standards. 

Yet with support, the apples grew, they are beautiful in colors of red, yellow, and green. Sweet and tart. Delightful and good-natured. Eventually, loved ones and friends slowly nod and say, “Alright, I understand now. It’s natural.”

They pressed the backs against the bark and said to no one, “This tree knows what it feels like to be stared at as odd.” They picked a leaf, studied the thick complicated veins. “We know this and We’ll stay strong too. No matter what we look like to them, and in the end, our fruit is the success of acceptance.”

Photo by Kristina Paukshtite at Pexels 

The Power in Shoes


Marisol looked like Frankenstein’s monster wearing the brown leather stride rite booties. No one in kindergarten wore them. The shoelaces tied to her ankles. Then came the braces. Wide black bars, she guessed from the dungeon hidden in the mad scientist’s castle and the straps with multiple metal loopholes that fastened over her chins. Those straps were scraps from the laboratory that held the monster on its gurney. The other kids, mostly the boys, would point and yell at her, “Frankenstein!”

Her friends stood by close with their legs, covering my Marisol’s bars. That’s when she thought about using this moment to her advantage. She raised my arms up, fingers straight, and roared. Her voice vibrated in her chest. 

Power. Stand up proud. 

She chased the boys, made them screamed, fall on top of each other. Her friends laughed and cheered, “Go get ‘em.”

Marisol wore those leg straighteners for a century. Well, it seemed that long when she was a child. Now grateful. legs are straight. She doesn’t walk like a duck, or like a monster. Unless! That’s right. Unless she’s pretending, when laughing at her memories with her friends. Even with the boys. Her arms stretched out to be Frankenstein’s monster.

Photo via T. Gillmore

A Writer’s Mantra

Keep moving. Seek solutions.

Try, try, more than again.

It won’t get easier. But maybe, it will ease.

Cast upsetting thoughts out of your mind. Squeeze out those invisible pressures. 

Smile. Keep this fun. This baby is yours.

Check off your list. Go to the next idea, the What If, the possibility of action.


Photo via T. Gillmore

The Fantastic Invisible Song


My mother held my hand as we walked down another path in the woods. A bundle of blankets and food were tied to her back for us to camp until we reached our new home. The air was colder and smelled of snow. I smiled with excitement to play in it. Build a snowman and throw snowballs. Then I remembered I didn’t have my sled. My mother said it was old and we will get another at our new home. We zipped our coats to our chins and tighten our hoods when the wind blew. I opened my mouth like my mother to catch snowflakes on our tongue. The fur around my hood tickled my nose.

Then the sun went down, painting the sky orange and red. My mother draped a blanket over the leafless tree branches, making a tent, and another on the hard roots, forming little hills for us to sit. This was an adventure, she said. Imagine the new things we will see, both good and bad. I imagined we were explorers on a new land, off to discovered unicorns and dragons.

Photo via T.Gillmore 

The Lone Hawthorne Tree in the Field


Bonny was a tiny lass; born on Saint Patrick’s Day in a wagon with honeycomb blankets and a tattered canvas for shelter. Her parents had outwitted the bandits on the pathway to their future. Her mother had driven the wagon, while her father swept the trail behind them with branches and rocks large enough to blur the dirt road. The land was hard, as if granting clues about what lay ahead if they were brave to continue.

Her parents had passed one lone tree in a field of green. An imaginable gateway between mortals and faeries. Her mother kept her prayers and wishes deep inside her soul while singing Gaelic lullabies to the sleeping baby in her womb. Against the present of snakes, she hoped they were on their way to their homeland of Ireland.

Impossible, of course.

The future lay ahead in California. The city of gold and silver. Bonny’s birth sealed her father’s decision that he was correct for the travel.

Bonny knew nothing of this, except for the memory that was deep in her mother’s soul. The yearning. The fear and courage. And most of all, the love for her, her father, and for the kindhearted wee folk. The very wee folk who sprinkled fairy dust on Bonny’s nose so she could giggle through their passage home.

Photo of Zion State Park via T. Gillmore

Enter the Unknown


She was ready, suitcase in hand, yarn in her bag. They said it would be a long trip. Therefore, she brought her knitting to keep herself occupied. She was one of the chosen ones and was excited to leave the remote desert. The land of her ancestors had not influenced her to stay with its red rocks, desert marigolds, and endless horizons falsely giving hope that success was just beyond the other side. Mars was the place of hopes and dreams. 

A fortune to be had. 

Everyone has the chance to make it there than anywhere. She placed her palm on the dirt for one last time. A simple goodbye. No tears. No fear. Her head was in the stars. 

Time to grow. 

Photo via “Brain,” by Daniela Edburg. (Daniela Edburg/Art Museum of the Americas)

Priceless is in the Soul


The golden ring of circular diamonds sparkled brighter in the of dead night. The princess wore such jewelry to guide her to the river where the boatman waited. She took his steady hand as he assisted her onto his wooden craft made from discarded coffins. 

The Neverland was across the waters, under the moonless night. The princess raised her palm and gave light to their voyage. She would visit her grandparents and still greater grandparents to reminisce and keep their memory alive.

Yet this time, on her return home, she gave her ring to the boatman as payment. This was unexpected. Her golden necklace, silver bracelets were past payments. And even those were too much for the travel. The princess insisted. This light would guide him without terror of colliding with the shore rocks, fear of storms at night, because every minute was night. The ring was something she hadn’t thought of before to keep this noble and kind boatman safe. 

He accepted the gift and tossed it in the water. 

The princess covered her mouth with her hand, close to tears; he threw her most precious item. The sole remembrance of her family. The rocks swirled to golden piers, the thunderous clouds beamed bright with silver linings, and the last gift for the Neverland turned darkness into love, a home for kind souls.

Photo via Pixabay

The Next World of AI

“Do you think one box will be enough?” Hubby asked me as we finished the dishes. I try not to roll my eyes, but half the time I wonder how...