It started with the mammoths inked on the dive bar bathroom stall. A whole herd of them, bloated bodies on stick legs, romping above the sliding lock. We didn’t know what to make of something so primeval among sharpie conversations, overlapping stickers, and scribbled genitals. You offered to enter a prompt into ChatGPT for interpretation but I said, no, don’t, so you snapped a picture to post on socials and left it at that.
Turns out, none of us needed a computer to analyze rudimentary imagery. Mutuals responded to your post with mood, and that’s so real, which prompted us to craft our own rendition on the trek back to our respective apartments. Tiny spear-wielding hunters charged across the seat of the park bench, framed at an angle suggesting everyone’s timelines were under attack. I wanted to caption it with something clever like frozen in time, but you said, no, don’t, so I shared the photo and left it at that.
In a matter of days, crude art of all subjects materialized around town. Bison on street signs. Stags on telephone poles. Big cats on bus shelters. Their online presence sparked a viral sensation: return of the cave paintings, no generative AI necessary. Every city arguably devolved into the next Lascaux or Chauvet, crafted by modern hands. Graffitied on freight cars, stick figure humans tamed stick figure horses. Sidewalks transformed into concrete canvases, suitable for stenciled handprints. Avian and piscine symbolism adorned underpasses.
Reporters claimed this Paleolithic second coming came as no surprise. This screen-weary generation was bound to crumble at some point. The world had just about exhausted its dependence on technological advances. It only made sense that we sought comfort in our primitive roots.
Away with the captions. Just sun squiggle human. Swirl arrow bear. Away with the emojis. Each imperfect stroke left behind a level of soul computer pixels couldn’t replicate. Moon rabbit wolf. This was the simplicity our rotten brains craved.
In a different timeline, perhaps that original post of ours would have earned us the titles of influencers, but that superficial kind of glorification didn’t define our reality anymore. We reverted to man and man. People among people, coexisting for the simple sake of survival on this jaded planet.
Someday down the line, on the walk to that old dive bar we still frequented, you and I stumbled across an epic mural swallowing the entire width of our former elementary school. River cattle spirit. Zigzag fire handprint. Star serpent dancers. A display as intricate as this must have taken a whole village of artists to complete.
Out of instinct, you reached for your pocket to document this spectacular sight. I stopped you with a grunt, a resurrected method of communication. No, don’t. You grunted back with a nod. So we folded our arms, admired the archaic artistry with our own eyes, and left it at that.
Bethany Cutkomp writes surreal and existential fiction from the Midwest. Her work appears in X-R-A-Y, trampset, HAD, Stanchion, Ghost Parachute, and more. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Sometimes the bees end up stinging her. So do the vibes. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.