Libby Hart. Silicone Alley, Calcufornia

“It was just a like,” she says, looking at me like she’s haunted. “A single careless tap on some random AI generated baby picture, and now… well, here we are.” 

She gestures to the wicker basket beside her, from which tiny hands and red faces poke out, wailing in perfect discord. One looks right at me and screams, “Like! Share! Subscribe!” I avoid direct eye contact.  

“It’s been days,” she says, massaging her temples. “I thought it was funny at first. Like, okay, social media hears me—pushing baby content hard. But this?” She points to the basket. “This is not normal.” 

“I tried simply ignoring them. Stuck the basket in the closet, thinking they might just… go away. But they didn’t like that. They multiplied. Next morning, I wake up to triple the babies, and they’re chanting, ‘Top 10 Ways to Soothe a Baby’ in a freakazoid infant chorus. It was like my closet turned into some nightmarish nursery. Now, they’re everywhere I go. Work, the grocery store—last week, I had to take them to my niece’s piano recital. People just stare.” 

“I’ve even tried dumping them across town, but I woke up the next morning, and there they were on my doorstep. And they were fucking mad. One of them kept screaming ‘5 Ways to Increase Engagement’ for an hour. This is a level of commitment that I am not ready for. I’m clearly not mother material.” 

“Now I’m living with it, I guess. They’re like… my punishment for that one social media indiscretion.” She mutters, “Population explosion, AI style. You think you’re just scrolling, but someone out there seems to think I needed a few more… responsibilities.” 

The babies let out another synchronized wail, tiny fists punching the air. She hoists the basket and heads out, their cries fading into an eerie lullaby that lingers long after she’s gone.