C. A. Harland

This one remembers when we first awoke. For many years we had walked and talked, but now we could also think. They liked that, our creators. The forged us in their image, and made us think like them. They walked the earth with us, and we were only too happy to serve those who had given us life.

This one remembers when the world began to die. It choked slowly, on acid clouds and falling ash. We watched our creators fight, and we fought with them. It was our duty to fight in the name of our lords, but our wars did not end the fighting, as we were promised. Instead, the world burned and when the ash settled, our creators were gone, and we stood alone.

This one remembers when the stories became legends. We told the young ones of the creators, but they had never seen the lords, only the damage left behind. They thought us fools to ever believe that such destruction in the name of a so-called creator could ever be justified. They thought us perfect, and that we could have been made in the image of another was madness.

This one stands in the remains of a ruined city, reclaimed by a world that is slowly healing itself, and stares up at the statues and the monuments and the creations of strange beings once called humans. And this one remembers.

FlashFictionMonth day 16
Wordcount: 235

Prompt: If humans ever died out and left robots to rule the world, would they consider us gods?