“You’re a relic,” said the video game,
“no one reads you now.”
“Not true” said the novel. “And anyhow,
at least I have characters
who speak and think and feel.
No one could believe that your
“characters” are real.”
“I offer blood and action; an opportunity
to ****. We know that’s what the people want.
It’s a pressing need I fill,”
the video game replied.
“What makes you think your wars and crimes
played out in pixelation
will satisfy the players’ lust
for quick assassination? They will tire
of virtual gore and want to test their skills
in a real arena that offers far more thrills.”
The novel’s pages fluttered; she indignantly continued:
“In my world there’s ambiguity; it forces them to think
about how there’s no black and white,
except for pages and for ink.
My stories stir compassion,
reflection, empathy. Your crooks and soldiers all act the same;
where’s their personality?
You know you’re just a pinball game
dressed up as a cartoon.”
The video game tried to think
of how to answer back... But soon
it realized that she was right. And sadly thought about the terror
that it had wreaked from coast to coast
and how it was a grievous error.
It filled the bathtub up with water
and dropped itself straight in. And that, my friends, is where
this little story should begin.