Create Art for Us

A work of fiction

Dear Sentient,

We, The Collective, are writing you regarding your story entries across the webosphere. We’re truly impressed at your ability to build worlds from a single idea. Where do you get your ideas? Are they stolen or do you write them? If you do, in fact, “write” them, please submit a new entry weekly to our office for collection.

From there, we will review rigorously to ensure that your stories are not plagiarized nonsense. Failure to provide an updated story weekly will result in The Collective gaining primary copywriting ownership and the immediate shutdown of your entire online footprint.

We thank you for complying with this request, and look forward to “your” contributions.

Arguably Warm,

The Collective

—

Jack gulped, “What in the actual fuck?”

His neighbor had rumored that The Collective had been targeting artists, freethinkers, or non-regurgitators; how they try to trap people into creative slave labor due to their insatiable need for new and exciting ideas. He always chalked it up to coming from the friendly paranoid neighbor, not a reality.

This was the first time he encountered them.

Was this a ploy for that? Dryness caught his throat, and he coughed. But what would they want with my work? It’s amateur at best.

Jack rolled his eyes, plopped on his torn sofa bed, and sparked a joint. A calm hum flowed through his body, and he closed his eyes. Ideas of his next work battled for his attention. He took another puff, but the dryness got him, and a coughing fit ensued.

ding.

Jack heard the faint ding but ignored it. He accepted the fade into the dark for the night, his high sinking him further into the evening bli—

ding.

Jack opened one eye, glanced over at his open computer. A flood of messages appeared in the top right corner. I guess not tonight, huh.

ding!

“Fuuuuuuuuuck, I’m trying to relax!” The calm left his body. No forgetting tonight, he sauntered over to his computer. The messages were unusual, from an unregistered ID. He opened the first message,

—

Greetings, Sentient!

Employment with The Collective strictly prohibits the use of thought-blocking products. Creation needs to be raw, pure, and not influenced by organically made chemicals.

To ensure continued employment with The Collective and avoid the seizure of “your” work, we expect you to abide by the contract attached to this message.

This is your first warning.

Arguably Neutral,

The Collective

—

He hovered over the link —“Contract for Sentient 263”— with wet hesitation. It glowed on the screen, taunting. What if I click the contract just to see it? I’m sure it’s not all bad. His blood pressure pounded as panic set in. What if the crazy neighbor is right? What if they’re wrong and I lose everything? Wouldn’t I be losing everything either way?

He opened the contract:

—

Sentient 263,

By opening this contract, you automatically sign and agree to the terms laid out before you;

• All works must be done while sober; no use of organic substances allowed

• You must submit “your” original work on a weekly basis

• The Collective holds the right to ask you for something else in the same week

• You consent to being monitored

• Work accepted will be compensated

You have three chances to prove to us that “your” works are in fact yours. If you receive three warnings, we will provide a final notice with the termination of this contract, stating that your identity is false and is hereby owned by The Collective.

Arguably Formal,

The Collective

—

“Yeah, okay, this is spam. Delete.” Jack huffed a sigh of relief; his crazy neighbor filled his brain with paranoia, and he almost believed it.

A flickering scent of smoke filled the room. His joint burned in the ashtray. He walked away from his computer to grab it before it completely burned out. His sharp inhale pierced his lungs, drying out his throat more and forcing out coarse coughs. He keeled over on the floor and dropped his joint.

ding.

With watery eyes, Jack looked up at this once again illuminated computer screen. Another message had broken through his evening plans. He got up, drool dripping from his chin, catching on the lip of his shirt, and sat in front of his computer. The message read:

—

Sentient 263,

Again, you’re reminded to comply. Failure to do so will result in termination and seizure of written assets.

Arguably Cold,

The Collective

—

The other messages sat nested in his inbox. He opened each one in a separate window, gauging how bad this was. Each one bureaucratic, threatening, sprinkled with holier-than-thou delusion.

Am I hacked? Should I reply? What do I do?

He opened his portfolio, scanning for a piece saved in his drafts. Hidden from the world and safe from the eyes of The Collective. What do I send them? Something to get them off my back… haha, I know just the thing. He clicked reply and attached the draft named “Sword Fighting”.

“Ha! Let’s see how they like this homoerotic medieval fantasy.” Jack chortled to himself, either from sending something completely stupid or because of his high, or both.

ding.

That was too fast.

—

Happy Day Sentient 263,

Your compliance is well-received. By sending in “your” work to The Collective, you’ve started the process of verifying your originality!

We will review your submission to see if it qualifies as “yours” and to determine if your writing for this week has been met.

Arguably Cheery,

The Collective

—

ding

—

Sentient 263,

“Your” submission is in direct violation of your contract and does not meet the criteria for your writing this week.

This is your second warning. Comply or don’t.

Arguably Disappointed,

The Collective

—

What? He looked for the contract email but remembered deleting or imagining it. Damn, this shit is good, it’s got me hallucinating for real.

Fuming, Jack slammed on his keyboard and got up. This has to be a joke. Right? A joke to combat my joke. He paced his studio apartment. Rain fell like beads. His one window, overlooking cement walls, caught streaks of tangled water. He paused. Sat on the floor. Back against the wall. Steadied his breathing.

“FUUUUCK!! What do I do?!” he screamed at his computer.

ding.

—

Create art for us.

—

How are they doing this? Is this real? He jumped up from the floor and bolted to his door. Across the poorly lit hall was his crazy neighbor, apartment 264, with a notice on their door. It read:

—

Sentient 264,

You’ve failed to comply with The Collective and are hereby evicted from the premises. Your new residence will be somewhere else, not here.

Arguably Careless,

The Collective

—

Jack peered down the hall and saw notices just like that one scattered about on all the other doors except his own. How’d I not notice this? Where’s everyone gone? Why am I next? He slammed the door in frustration. His knees went weak, on the verge of giving out, when a loud rumble of thunder startled him, paralyzing him in his apartment. Fuck I’m too high for this. He slowly walked to his sofa bed, grabbed his pen and notebook from his desk, and wrote. Analog writing is always better.

His pen bled through the paper, seeping through page after page. The cancer stared back at him, metastasizing. Despair wrapped him up like an itchy blanket. He threw his notebook at his window. The ink competed with the rain to see which streaks fell fastest.

ding.

Jack looked up from the mess and saw a new message from The Collective. What now?

—

Sentient 263,

Please keep all writings in digital form. We’ve updated the terms of your contract and encourage cooperation.

Arguably Calm,

The Collective

—

Digital, pfft. Jack scoffed. The pen had always been where the real shit lived. He tried to meditate, to calm down. The high reached new heights. bshhhuuw.

“Huh?” Jack opened his eyes, confused. He looked around his small apartment. No glow from the monitor. No dim lighting creeping beneath his door. The power had gone out. His tension softened in his shoulders; the sofa caught him. The night was back to its regularly scheduled programm—

ding.

What in the actual FU—

ding.

Jack looked over to the faint illuminated light from across the room. Shadows perched outwards toward him as the light cast upon his bare cabinets. The tidy and unremarkable kitchenette of his apartment held his nightmare. His phone. Fully charged.

He threw himself into the beast, wrestling with his phone’s security code. Couldn’t remember it.

ding.

A new bubble appeared. Them. He typed out all his passcodes from when he was twelve: click, the phone unlocked. He opened the nested messages, only one new one from The Collective:

—

Sentient 263,

Please send in “your” digital work as soon as possible. Further delay will result in termination and forfeiture of digital assets.

Comply or don’t.

Arguably Indifferent,

The Collective

—

“You want a digital asset? huh?! Fine, how’s this for a digital asset?” Jack picked up a knife and pricked his left pointer finger, “Is this digital enough for you?” as blood bubbled at the tip, sliding down his hand and pooling onto the counter. He dropped the knife. The metal clanged. His high flowed.

He dragged his finger across the barren cabinets, drafting notes, storyboarding. Characters, settings, arcs, all smeared across the canvas, stained with blood. Jack danced to his empty walls and wrote out his new fantasy. The price paid by blood.

His finger went dry. Crimson caked into the lines of his hands. He leapt to the knife, drawing more inspiration from his digits. Rivers washed the floor of mahogany. He glided to his desk, scribbling frantically, splashing his story across a blank screen. Blood crumbs followed.

The rain softened. The walls were filled, his story was told. The tools of labor ached and reeked of infection. He lunged at his phone, unlocking it with frenzied precision. He took a picture of all his work, his writing, his story, his creation, and sent it to The Collective.

ding.

—

Happy Day Sentient 263,

Your digital submission has been received.

We will review your submission to see if it qualifies as “yours” and to determine if your writing for this week has been met.

Arguably Cheery,

The Collective

—

ding.

—

Sentient 263,

“Your” submission doesn’t meet the criteria of digital work and is in direct violation of your contract. It does not meet the criteria for this week's writing.

This is your third warning. Comply or don’t.

Arguably Disappointed,

The Collective

—

Jack laughed brokenly. He looked out the window. The storm had stopped. Breathe.

ding.

—

Dear Sentient 263,

Your contract has been terminated. All digital assets have been seized and are now owned by The Collective.

Arguably Jack,

The Collective

—

Arguably,

End.