Hour of Writes is a weekly, peer-reviewed writing competition. Enter now for a chance to win, and to receive personal feedback on your entry.

Editorial

20th August 2024

Recently, the word has taken on new life – literally, in the form of AI. As John said in Genesis, ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God’. In the media constantly humans are worried, or not worried, or trying to get attention or money for column inches, about this creation of a knowledge-being, a communication-lifeforce, taking from and reassembling information to present to its human creators and compadres, or on which to base decisions for actions.

Just when it looked as if the written word was increasingly injured, suffering and off sick sometime in the early 2000s, with levels of literacy low, libraries underused, and visual media increasingly taking over, it received an unexpected boost from the digital world. Emails, text messages, and comments on written media such as Twitter, became paramount, and everyone needed to be able to write and respond to at least some basic level. Voice calls are now increasingly unpopular in comparison with written word-to-word communication.

I asked one of the major AIs (alongside myself, with my rather prescient initials of AI!) to write something creative in response to ‘Another Creation Myth’. I include what it wrote at the bottom for you to refer to.

The Song of Creation

Before time, there was only Silence. A vast, empty expanse, a void where nothing existed. In this stillness, a single note hummed, a vibration so subtle it was almost imperceptible. It was the seed of creation, a primordial sound.

From this note, a cosmic being emerged, named Lyra. Her form was made of starlight and melody, her essence a symphony of existence. Lyra yearned for company, a chorus to harmonize with her song. With a thought, she willed the universe into being.

She plucked strings from the cosmic harp, and from each note, a celestial body was born. The deep, resonant basslines formed the sturdy foundations of planets, while the soaring trebles became distant stars. The rhythm of creation pulsed through the cosmos, giving birth to galaxies, nebulas, and black holes.

Life, too, was a melody composed by Lyra. She breathed her song into the cosmic dust, and from it emerged the first beings. They were creatures of sound, their bodies vibrating with the harmony of the universe. They lived in harmony with the cosmos, their lives a continuous dance to the music of creation.

As time passed, Lyra’s song evolved. New notes were added, harmonies deepened, and dissonances appeared. The universe expanded and changed, a cosmic symphony in constant motion. But Lyra remained the eternal composer, her music the heartbeat of existence.

And so, the universe continues to sing, a breathtaking melody of creation, a testament to the power of a single note in the silent void.

Would you like me to expand on this myth, or perhaps create another one?

Ephemera

Martin stood backstage, watching the way the floodlights sliced through cracks in the curtain, laying harsh beams across the uneven floor. His hands were sweating. For a moment, he wondered why he'd wanted so badly to be here, when at the moment, it felt as if he might wretch into his aide's handbag.

But no, there was a reason he wanted to be here. He'd always longed to be up on that stage, ever since he was a kid, using every weapon in his arsenal to win a better life for the people of his town, his state, his country. And now, finally, he'd made it.

It had been surreal, passing the cheering crowds on the way in to the stadium, many of them holding signs bearing his own name, and that of his running-mate. She'd smiled at him from across the armour-plated vehicle, sharing in the shock and awe of seeing their names borne together by so many hopeful voters.

But there had been another name out there, too. The name of his opponent. And the people holding those signs had looked hungry- angry- desirous of victory at all costs. He shivered. He'd known his opponent for many years- they'd even gone to the same law school- though this did anything but fill him with confidence.

Dennis Branley was ambitious, clever and, above all, weak-willed. Despite what the pundits might think, if his opponent had been tough as nails, Martin would have been more at ease. He could deal with tough.

But a man who was too compliant to even stand up to his own voters? Now, that was dangerous.

"Sir," Martin's aide appeared at his side, taking in his clenched fists and purposeful breathing without comment. "Sir, there's been an incident."

"What kind of incident?"

"It's-well, there was a bomber, sir."

Martin's eyes widened, scanning the section of crowd he could glimpse through the crack in the curtain.

"Are they evacuating us?" He asked.

"No, sir, the incident was in Florida. They have no reason to believe there's any danger here."

"Right." Martin nodded. "Do they know anything about the perpetrators?"

Here, his aide hesitated. She glanced behind her, biting her lip, as if deciding whether or not to say the words crowding up on her tongue.

"What is it, Angela? Was it a terror attack?"

"No, sir. As far as they can tell, it was a one-off. A single man with a history of violence. But..." Her eyes flicked up into Martin's, holding him there with a steely gaze. "I know someone in the force there."

She left the sentence hanging, waiting for him to connect the dots which she was laying out. He shook his head.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, that Dennis Branley is dangerous, sir. We all know that him winning this election could mean a lot more damage than we care to think about. But if he were to be...behind something...like this-"

Martin lowered his voice, ushering her further away from the edge of the stage and the possibility of being overheard.

"You're saying Dennis Branley is behind this attack?"

She stared at him.

"I'm saying he could be."

Silently, she pulled a flyer out of her pocket- one of the brightly coloured ones with the well-known slogan 'Dennis is our man' scrawled across the front. Slowly, Martin started recognise what she was getting at.

Seeing the realization on his face, she carried on. "People are very good at putting two and two together and getting whatever we want them too, right? So, a flyer like this on the bomber's person- found by my friend in the force- and Dennis Bradley is toast."

Martin stared back at her. Could this really be what she was suggesting? Creating an entirely false narrative for the sake of winning this election? It went against everything they stood for, everything they longed for their country to value- truth, honor, justice.

Still.

He was fully aware that the other side weren't exactly playing clean. Just last week, they'd caught someone loosely connected to Dennis' campaign trying to hack into their servers. No matter what dodgy, underhand work he seemed to be capable of, still Dennis' supporters stuck staunchly by him.

But this. This would be the final straw. They'd finally see Martin's opponent the way Martin saw him- a ticking time bomb for a country on the edge.

Thinking about it that way, it would almost be irresponsible not to take this chance. He might very well be delivering the country into the hands of a man who could pull it limb from limb, all the while knowing he'd had a way to stop it.

But could he really go out there and lie? Look straight into those hopeful faces, ones that believed in his position on the high road, and tell them something he knew to be untrue? Could he nod solemnly as reporters asked for him to comment on his opponent's involvement in the bombing, and then condemn him like a disappointed father?

Lying had never come easily to Martin, but then the stakes had never been this high. And he'd had practice, as a politician, in answering questions in roundabout ways, avoiding the crux of the matter. He could do that now. He could decline to answer out of a manufactured horror that his opponent was capable of such a thing.

Martin put his eye up to the crack in the curtain, careful not to show himself to the gathered crowd. In the front row sat his wife, his daughter and his three nephews who'd begged to come support him. They believed in him, in his steadfast nature and command of the facts.

He sighed.

Turning back around to his aide's anxious face, he shook his head.

"But sir-"

"No, Angela. It might cost us this whole damned thing, but we can't afford to become them. If we do this, they might as well strike my name from the ballot and put Dennis on there twice."

Angela opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. "Yes, sir. I'll tell him to give it up."

Give it up.

As Martin finally stepped out into the pool of floodlights, enveloped in the cheering of thousands of people, he wondered if that's what he was doing. Giving up.

***

That night, Martin passed through his living room at home, on his way to get a well-deserved beer. On the couch, his wife turned her face up to greet him. He bent over to give her a kiss.

"I'm so proud of you, honey." She said. He smiled and continued towards the fridge. "Mind you, it can't have been that hard to take him down with the news of his involvement in that awful plot."

Martin froze, his hand on the door to the refrigerator. He said nothing, but his wife continued anyway.

"You never did say why you rushed off at the start of the debate. Nerves? You always did throw up before debates in law school."

She was jibbing him, but Martin couldn't respond- it was like his mouth was filled with sand.

"Honey?"

He took a deep breath.

"Yep, just nerves. Angela had to find me a trash bin." Martin grabbed the frosty beer and walked back through the living room as his wife chuckled.

"I'm going to read in bed." He told her.

"Okay. Congratulations again, dear."

"Thanks."

Slowly, Martin walked into his bedroom, then into the bathroom adjoining. Setting his beer down, he stared at himself in the mirror.

'Did you do it?' His reflection seemed to ask.

He nodded.

'What did it cost?'

"Nothing," Martin said aloud, to no one but himself. "Fiction is cheap."