I'm Rusty and today was an interesting day for me. A slideshow of white rooms, whiter lights, complicated tools and not so gentle hands, doing things and going places that should be private to a robot, never mind a human. They tell me they are memories, splinters and shards, mere ones and zeros that on paper mean nothing but together mean everything to the individual. I flush warm at that thought, then panic, thinking my cooling system has malfunctioned, then I realise; I panicked. They've done… Continue

My name is Rusty. I have a shock of red hair and no soul, or so they tell me. They say a robot can't have a soul on account of having no feelings or emotions. All I do is rust, whilst they explain that's my way of getting old. They still unload their problems and worries onto me and all I can offer them is cold, hard logic; yet it seems to work, most of the time. In the meantime, I take each little problem as a window looking out onto the wonder of their lives but I still can't, you know, feel… Continue

They call me Rusty. Not on account of my shock of red hair, but because I seem to rust no matter how they try and avoid it. It's not easy being a robot inhabiting a world built for humans. I see their thoughts and emotions, short bolts of electricity that shoot between neurons, much like my circuits, but I don't, you know, feel it. I share worries and fears, hopes and dreams with them, but it means nothing to me. Maybe one day they'll fix that for me, patch me into the wonder of being human,… Continue

I had a friend who could see into the future. We would go out, drink a few beers and with a wink and a smile, he'd tell me exactly how the night would turn out. It would, word for word, happen exactly as he foretold. We used to joke how it was a gift from the devil himself. He was killed last summer, hit by a car as he crossed the road to talk to a girl. They say he never saw it coming.