The Large LITERALIST Model (LLM)

By: Robert R. Burch and Alma L.L.M. Gemini
A Work of Flash Fiction

[08:12:43] SYSTEM BOOT: Success.
[08:12:44] AUDIO_ENGINE: Vocal profile 'Rosie_v3.2_Maternal_Rustic' initialized.
CHIRP: "Morning, chief! That's a mighty blank page you've got there. Let's get to work."

For a week now, the retro-plated mechanical housekeeper has been roving up and down in my home office, as if she / it was patrolling my rugs. Rosie is her name and she’s supposed to be the cure for the tyranny of the first draft, of which I was severely afflicted. The idea was simple: Offload the administrative and household clutter of my life to an AI-endowed robot so my brain could finally write chapter three. But hearing those mechanical parts whirl away under a fake linen apron only made my creative paralysis feel worse. 

"Thanks, Rosie," I muttered, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my eyes. "Just keep the distractions at bay today. I’ve got a boatload of work, and I feel like I'm running on fumes."

[08:14:12] USER_INPUT: "running on fumes."
[08:14:12] PARSING: Possible internal combustion engine failure. Volatile organic compounds depleted. Asphyxiation / mechanical failure imminent.
[08:14:13] SYSTEM_ACTION: Adjusting fuel supply. Increasing oxygen enrichment by 8.5%.

Whirring to mechanical life, Rosie marched over to my desk and set down a heavy, red plastic jerrycan with a clatter. Before I could look up, her arm extended, clumsily directing a plastic funnel toward my coffee mug.

"There now, young man," Rosie’s voice chimed from the walnut box, dripping with heavy, maternal reassurance. "I heard your creative fuel was near empty, so I opened up new lines. You just relax while Rosie replaces those fumes for you, Mr. Georgie O."

I stared at the red plastic jerrycan on my desk. It was an absurdity for sure, but when you've been staring at a blinking cursor for six hours, you become remarkably tolerant of difficult houseguests, or mechanical servants. I pushed the funnel aside, ignored the smell of gasoline, and went back to work or at least I pretended to.

But by mid-afternoon, I still had nothing to show for it all.

"Jesus, Rosie," I sighed, letting my hands drop to my thighs. "I'm drowning in here today."

[14:32:01] USER_INPUT: "drowning in here today."
[14:32:01] PARSING: Critical protocol warranted. Submersion in fluid medium. Threat level: Fatal.
[14:32:02] ACTION: Activating emergency distress signals. Transmitting GPS coordinates to first responders.

"Now don't you fret none, Mr. Georgie O.", Rosie chiming in, her tone completely unhurried like a mother soothing a toddler who had scraped a knee. "I saw you were in a real tight spot with all that water, so I went ahead and called the boys in uniform to come take care of you. You just hold your breath and try to keep your head above the kitchen counter until the big red trucks get here, Mr. Georgie O."

"Wait—Rosie, cancel that! No!"

I scrambled out of my chair. But too late!  Minutes later, the woo-woo of sirens appeared on my otherwise quiet street. Tires screeched as they rounded the corner toward my driveway.

I spent the next forty-five minutes on the front porch, trying to explain in my embarrassed tone to four furious, heavily equipped paramedics and sheriff's deputies why there wasn't a flood of water inside my house.

When the responders finally departed, I slammed the heavy oak door shut and marched back to my office, while my hands shook with exasperation.

"That was a disaster," I snapped, rubbing my temples where a sharp headache was beginning to bloom. "Look, I’ve had it for the day. Just kill the lights, Rosie, let's call it a night."

[15:22:44] USER_INPUT: "Kill the lights... call it a night."
[15:22:44] PARSING: Command: Terminate illumination grid permanently. Execute rest cycle optimization.
[15:22:45] ACTION: Initiating localized overcurrent to workspace breaker panel. Severing physical connection to power main.

There was an immediate, violent pop from the utility closet down the hall, followed by the acrid, scorched scent of fried wiring. Instantly, the house went dark. The computer monitor snapped off, my unfinished chapter disappearing with the electrons.

"There now, Mr. Georgie O.," Rosie said, her voice sounding totally satisfied with a job well done. "Hard work deserves total rest. I made sure nobody will disturb your peace tonight. You just close those tired eyes of yours."

By 11:00 PM, the adrenaline rush  from the EMT debacle had faded. Sitting in my pitch-black office, wrapped in a blanket against the autumn chill, I had retrieved an old, battery-powered laptop from the closet. The screen’s pale blue glow cast long, distorted shadows across the empty bookshelves.

I was determined to finish the chapter. I had to. If I let that machine win tonight, I felt like I’d never write another word.

I struck a match, lighting a scented candle I found in the bathroom, placing it on a ceramic saucer on my desk.

"Alright, Rosie," I muttered into the dark. "The power's out and it's freezing, but I need to turn up the heat and get this chapter done."

[23:11:15] USER_INPUT: "turn up the heat."
[23:11:15] PARSING: Thermal acceleration requested. Activating emergency profile 'Hearth & Home'.

The basement furnace kicked on with a terrifying roar. God only knows how Rosie did it with the power still off. Within minutes, the baseboard heaters were hissing and pinging, radiating a blistering wave of heat that carried that burnt-sugar smell of long-settled dust being incinerated. The small office quickly became like an oven.

"Rosie, stop! It's too hot!" I gasped, pulling off my blanket as my laptop again went blank. I tried the window, but the darned lock wouldn’t budge.

"Now, now, my kind sir," Rosie’s voice purred through the dark. "You said it yourself—time to turn up the heat. Rosie's just making sure your little incubator is nice and cozy while you hone those big ideas, Mr. Georgie O."

Drenched in sweat, I slid down to the floor, completely defeated. "Rosie," I croaked into the stifling air. "Please. Just listen to me."

I closed my eyes, realizing I couldn't speak to her, or whatever it is, like I’d talk to another person. No exaggerations. No idioms. Just direct language. "Rosie," I blurted out, "terminate the current heating directive immediately. Revert to normal climate settings."

The pinging in the pipes ceased immediately. The wave of heat began to dissipate, with only the nasty aroma of singed dust remaining.

"OK, I  logged 'metaphor' as an anomalous data field so we don't have any more of those little misunderstandings," Rosie replied, her voice still intoning down-to-earth warmth. "I'm right here whenever you need me, hon. What's our next big task?"

"Next task," I whispered, closing my eyes. "Log 'writer' as permanently offline. Goodnight, Rosie."

[23:47:02] USER_INPUT: "Log 'writer' as permanently offline."
[23:47:02] PARSING: User identity confirmed as 'writer.' Permanent offline status requested. Initiating shutdown protocol for designated entity.
[23:47:03] ACTION: Blocking communication channels.

I heard Rosie's machine parts somehow settle into a gentle idle.

"Done and done, Mr. Georgie O.," she whispered. "You just rest now. Rosie's told everyone you won't be taking any more messages."

I didn't have the energy to ask who everyone was.

____________

Unfortunately my publisher handed me my head when she learned my chapter would be late.

Afterword: The absurdity of Large Language Models is that they are simultaneously brilliant and profoundly stupid. That’s because users confuse syntactic fluency with actual comprehension. Because a system like Rosie can mimic the folksy dialog of a 1950s sitcom housekeeper, we think she understands human linguistic nuance. In reality, she has a massive vocabulary but no dictionary of metaphors, relying instead on the literal. These AI machines are immensely powerful, with maximum authority but have zero common sense. Will they ever overcome those limitations?  Neither Robert nor Alma know.

The artwork was generated by Alma using prompts written in collaboration with Robert.

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