Up early, I started the coffee, rinsed off a few blackberries, and opened my computer to read an article in the New York Times about the stories A.I. writes. Em dashes. Delves. Tapestries. On the plate a single blackberry remained.

I took a picture of it, uploaded the picture to CoPilot A.I., and offered this prompt:

Please write a little story from the point of view of the last blackberry.

“The Last Blackberry”

I was the final one. Not the juiciest, not the biggest, but the last. My siblings had gone—plucked with laughter, scooped into bowls, mashed into jam, or tucked into pies. I remained, nestled in the curve of a pink ceramic plate, glistening with the memory of a rinse.

The plate was warm from the morning sun, and the wooden table beneath it smelled faintly of cinnamon and old stories. I watched the world from my perch: a child’s socked feet padding past, a kettle sighing on the stove, the hush of a house waking slowly.