Artificially Speaking

Short Story by Nish Nishimura

Part One: The Green Light

The morning sunlight spilled across the patio tables of The Conservatory Coffee Shop near Sony Pictures Studios, warming the sidewalks and parked Teslas along the street. Jean arrived early, claiming a small wrought-iron table outside beneath a faded umbrella. She watched people pass with dogs, laptops, and studio badges hanging from their necks like tiny declarations of survival in Los Angeles.

Bob appeared a few minutes later, carrying a paper coffee cup and the cautious optimism of a television writer who had spent too many years hearing the words “almost greenlit.”

“Hey Jean, thanks for waiting.”

“I just got here,” she said with a grin. “Beautiful day in the neighborhood, don’t-cha think?”

Bob laughed as he sat down. “You’re awfully chipper this morning.”

“I’m happy,” she said. “We finally got the go-ahead on the pilot.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, enjoying the rare feeling of good news in the entertainment industry.

Then Bob sighed.

“You know,” he said, stirring his coffee, “for a while I thought studios would start replacing scripted shows with AI.”

Jean groaned dramatically. “Bob, don’t ruin my high with AI.”

But he leaned forward anyway, unable to let the thought go.

“Studios always want to cut costs. No writers’ salaries. No directors. No actors. Just AI generating content.”

Jean shook her head. “Entertainment without people isn’t entertainment. It’s data.”

Bob shrugged. “People said computers couldn’t write music either.”

“Computers didn’t create Seinfeld,” Jean replied instantly. “Or Curb Your Enthusiasm. Larry David did. Those shows work because they come from human frustration, awkwardness, insecurity, and absurdity. AI hasn’t stood in line at Ralphs behind somebody arguing over expired coupons. It hasn’t had a disastrous first date at the Cheesecake Factory in Marina del Rey. It hasn’t lived.”

Bob smiled despite himself.

“You make a compelling argument, counselor.”

“AI can imitate structure,” she continued. “But humans create meaning.”

Bob looked out toward the street. Somewhere nearby, a helicopter chopped through the sky toward Hollywood.

“Guess I’ll keep writing the old-fashioned way,” he said.

Jean raised her coffee cup like a toast.

“To analog souls.”

Part Two: Actors and Margaritas

At Casa Vega, the lights were dim even at lunchtime, the red leather booths holding decades of conversations from actors, agents, producers, and couples quietly breaking up over enchiladas.

Wendy slid into the booth across from Charles with the ease of someone who had spent half her life in auditions and rehearsals.

“I swear this place hasn’t changed since 1978,” she said.

“That’s why I love it,” Charles replied.

A waiter arrived with chips, salsa, and margaritas strong enough to erase a callback rejection.

They toasted.

Wendy talked excitedly about an audition for Abbott Elementary. Charles had a meeting for a sci-fi indie backed by Apple.

For a few minutes, they sounded hopeful. Then the conversation drifted, as conversations often did lately, toward AI.

“I’m scared the actors are going to disappear,” Wendy admitted quietly.

Charles nodded too quickly, like he had rehearsed agreement in private.

“When I scroll TikTok,” he said, “I see these AI videos morphing actors from young to old. Dead actors talking again. Future versions standing beside younger versions. It’s incredible… and horrifying.”

Wendy traced the rim of her margarita glass.

“I already worry about aging out of roles,” she said. “Now I’m competing with technology too?”

Charles leaned back.

“But an AI doesn’t know heartbreak. Or grief. Or regret. It doesn’t know what it feels like to walk onto a stage terrified and somehow still perform anyway.”

Wendy smiled faintly.

“You sound like you’re giving an acting lecture.”

“Maybe I am.”

She laughed.

Then she told him about an argument she’d had with an AI chatbot that corrected her prompt and sarcastically excused her.

Charles nearly spit out his drink laughing.

“See? Even the robots have an attitude now,” said Wendy.

But beneath the humor sat something heavier neither of them fully said aloud: the fear that the industry they loved might stop needing them.

Still, when the waiter arrived carrying plates of chile relleno and carnitas tostadas, the smell alone felt deeply, reassuringly human.

With a big smile, Charles declared, “I don’t think AI could ever create good Mexican food!”

Part 3 Art for Art’s Sake

High above the city in Beverly Glen, John Rothman’s home and art studio overlooked the canyon like a private museum of memory.

Movie posters lined the walls beside Emmy and Clio awards. Shelves held sculptures, pottery, photographs, and unfinished experiments in clay. Sunlight filtered through large windows onto decades of a creative life.

Jason, John’s 20-something grandson, stopped by to have a chat with his grandfather. He needed some advice and encouragement. Jason wandered slowly through the studio while his grandfather shaped a small clay figure at the worktable.

“You really got to spend your whole life making art, and art supports you,” Jason said softly. 

John smiled without looking up.

“It wasn’t as easy as you think.” “I had to compete with other artists, and most of them were more talented than I,” John replied.

Jason works for a tech startup now, mostly troubleshooting software systems while secretly wishing he could spend every waking hour painting.

“With AI,” Jason said, “sometimes it feels like commercial artists won’t even exist anymore.”

John finally set down the clay.

“AI can make images,” he said. “But not art with a soul.”

Jason folded his arms. “I’ve used AI graphics myself.”

“And then what did you do?”

Jason hesitated.

“I kept changing it until it looked right.”

John nodded knowingly.

“Exactly. Because the machine didn’t know what right felt like. You did.”

The room grew quiet except for distant canyon traffic.

“A computer doesn’t wake up needing to create,” John continued. “Artists do. Sometimes it’s joy. Sometimes loneliness. Sometimes pain. But the need comes from somewhere alive.”

Jason looked around again at the paintings and sculptures surrounding them. None were perfect. Some were strange. A few were inspiring. Yet every piece carried evidence of a human hand trying to say something.

“That’s what matters,” John said gently. “Not perfection. Presence.”

Jason smiled.

“My only fear is ending up like Vincent van Gogh. Appreciated after I’m dead.”

John burst out laughing.

“Well then, let’s try to get you recognized before then.”

Outside, Los Angeles stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun, a city forever accepting change forced upon it while desperately trying to create it.

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