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.

One word cannot make a sentence. Surely. Have I just proved myself wrong and while I'm on, should we adhere to strict grammatical rules and regulations that say how we should express ourselves in written form? Never start sentences with and, we were told. And now I am. Shouldn't we just let the words flow and if they come out in some coherent form, be proud that we have done at least one productive thing that day and we can go to sleep happy?

It all seemed so peaceful one afternoon, when the birds twittered merrily in the trees and the

windows were open, allowing cool air to stir the humid contents of

the room. Inevitably the silence was broken, shattered like a mirror into a

thousand shards, but this time it was serious. The screaming started it, profanities bounced from one

pugilist to the next, children howling in fear as the boiling pot

of potential…

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Old Man Green spent each afternoon in his favourite chair on the porch, wrapped in a tartan blanket, watching the horizon through binoculars with one lens missing. Every day at 4, young Joseph would appear regular as clockwork with a smile and once a week with a bag of Old Man Green's coveted butterscotch sweets. They would sit silently, watching the horizon, sharing the sweets between them and watching and waiting for nothing in particular. One day, young Joseph turned up and… Continue

She sashayed across

to the window and stretched up to push it open. The tiny cotton skirt

she wore rode up her hips, exposing the cute tuck of her buttocks

peeking out from underneath. Mikey shuddered, whether in revulsion or

pleasure he wasn't sure, but he couldn't deny she still had a good

butt on her. To distract himself, he jumped quickly off the sofa,

blew out three of the nearest candles and took his seat again. He

plastered his best… Continue

Just a little thought rehashed as I'm having trouble with keeping my mind on one thing, sometimes even the smallest moments hold a story all of their own:



The wind had eased and the snow had crept away with its tail between its legs as the winter died and spring

plucked up the courage to peer out from the shadows. One hardy old man

stalked the beach, metal detector in hand, determined to beat the

crowds. Lost in the metronomic beeping of the machine he… Continue

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