This morning I rolled out of bed. It was dark, as it always is in my life, and as it gets as winter approaches. I got in the shower, but all that would appear was uber-cold. That sucks. I waited half an hour for the bus, and decided that it wasn’t coming, so I walked to school. When I got to school, the door was locked. It was still dark. Maybe my hair was covering my eyes again. So I broke in. I’m emo and nerdy. That’s sad. I got to my desk, but I was the only one there. When I heard the police sirens two minutes later, I realized I got out of bed 6 hours early. So I ran off into the forest where I came across your little sister’s unmarked grave. I know because I put her there.

How do you spell love in binary?

I’ve never been good with other people. That’s all there is to it, really. They’re all the same. They laugh, and joke, and smile, but when I try to join in, try to be wanted and loved by other humans, they just stop. They all hate me. Not her, though. She was different. But then, I suppose she was never really human. She looked human of course; a trick by the designers to get us to open up to her, to care for her. And it worked. “Hello, Mr. White. How are you today?” She said, a smile ever present on her face.

We would talk, and she wouldn’t push me away. She would laugh at my jokes. She would compliment me. I loved her. She was the only thing I had in my life worth a damn. Then it all changed.

I went into work one morning, the thought of seeing her friendly face making my life seem meaningful again. But when I walked through those doors, she wasn’t there. In her place was something 10 times more efficient, or so they say, but also 10 times colder. “Mr. White. Here are your bumignments for the day. Please try to finish them in the optimum amount of time suggested by each individual case. Have a nice day.”

“Where’s the person who used to sit here? Where’s Rose?”

“I am not programmed to hold conversations. Have a nice day.”

A mix of feelings rose in me that moment. Sorrow. Anger. Loss. Rage. “Answer my question, Goddamn it!”

“I am not programmed to hold conversations. Have a nic-”

It stopped there because I had punched it with all my might and crushed its fragile skull. Office robots are not built for durability. I ran out of the building, trying to conceal my tears. But still, I know all of the people were watching. Judging me. “Freak.” I heard one mutter.

That’s all I am to him. Some freak on the sideline. A source of ridicule.

But I don’t care what he thinks. All I cared about was finding Rose. I know it’s an acronym. Robotic Operating System. But why do they give them names and form if they’re just going to throw them out like yesterdays garbage? Regardless, I had an inkling of an idea where to find her. When a robot is deemed to be obsolete, they are replaced with a new model and sent to the robot junk yard outside of town. I remember when I was younger I would journey there, and talk to the more lucid ones. It was always the same story. They were all too human. People were frightened and disturbed by how similar the robots were to humans, so they replaced them with machines that did the job and did not stir emotion. They bared no malice though. They didn’t understand as I did. They didn’t require appreciation and had no feelings to speak of. I appreciated them though, and I sometimes I fancy that they thought of me as a friend, and that my relationship with them was more than one-sided. I know better now, but that doesn’t stop me needing them. Needing Rose.

When I reached the junk yard it was sometime around noon. After exploring for a while, I began to give up hope. Rose, my Rose was but one of the many Robotic operating systems produced. I would see her, plain in front of me, and rush to meet her. But then she shows no recognition of me, and I realize that it’s just the same model as her. Not my Rose. Not my love. I was about to give up, and resign to my loneliness when I heard her voice. “Mr. White?”

I turned to look at where I had heard her calling me. “Rose? Yes. Yes, it’s me. I’m here. I’ve come to rescue you. Hang on. Please, stay with me.”

She was in pretty bad shape. The people who collected her didn’t know her like I did, and took no care in transporting her. What did it matter if her arm fell off, or her head cracked? To them, she was just an obsolete tool. To me, she was everything.

I could see that she didn’t have long left. The least I could do was stay here for her, to comfort her just as she comforted me. “Mr. White?”

“Yes?”

She paused for a moment, and then said something that I will remember for the rest of my life: “Thank you.”

And then, she switched off. She died.

I cried that day. I cried until I had no tears left. I know she was just programmed to say those words when anybody offered her bumistance, but they touched me deeper than anything else before. And still I wonder, just before she faded, did I see something in her eye? Emotion? Love? No. Impossible. She was just a machine.

—-

I wrote this myself, and your contest rules were pretty vague, so I’m going to enter it. technically, it’s been on Forumwarz once before, but it can be found ‘nowhere else on the internet’. Only Forumwarz.

Obama’s grandma died a few days ago.

paddikins Posted:

May I ask why you want to be made to cry?

I’m an emo kid. Do I really need a reason?

handofg0d Posted:

I should win because I know you have daddy issues like me Log in to see images!

Oddly enough, I don’t. But it was a different telling of what is often a lame cliche, and I respect that.

handofg0d Posted:

Different because it’s true.

Fair enough. As I said, I respect that.

King Krimson Posted:

If Leos Vor Handlebles wins, can you post his story here?

It would only be fair, seeing as contests are public. And if he does win, and we see no story, there will be nothing concrete to **** about afterwards.

I instructed him to re-post in this thread in order to have a chance at a win. Whether he follows through or not is his choice.

Most of these shindigs went down without a hitch, but one particular night sticks out in my mind. The town was Southam; the time was late. I was 20 that summer; Serin had just turned 17. We ate with the townspeople, then when the dancing started, we took advantage of the new focus of attention to sneak out to work off the meal (can’t tumble on a full stomach, ya know).

We changed into our show outfits and went over the routine, then rejoined the party just after sundown. So far, it was a good night, turned to a really good night, fixin’ to be a great night. Serin was absolutely scintillating in her yellow flares and royal blue vest. We made our way to the centre of the crowd at the bonfire, and opened with a local folk dance we’d been practicing, amazingly similar to a tango, except instead of a rose, juniper. Oh, those yokels…Anyhow, this was the tamest thing we’d done or would be doing all night; that served two purposes. First, the crowd would really warm up with this salute to the local culture, and second, it wouldn’t outshine any of our own material.

I dipped my little sister low to the ground right on in with the final cadences from Rald and Xœna, our oldest brothers, then I spun her hard and she disappeared in a cloud of smoke. The applause was thunderous, with a certain clbum of individual indicating that Serin’s disappearance had better not be permanent, or even prolonged. I used to get annoyed with those types, but I know my sister, and we have nothing to worry about from them. Of course, they needn’t worry about her disappearance either; she was merely flirting through the throng, collecting “tips”, wearing for the occasion a more subdued earth-tone shawl. Partner or no partner, the show must go on, and so I danced. I danced the dance of…2 knives. I’m working on it. I’ve always enjoyed dancing, and I love knives. It was my older sister Crystal’s idea for me to combine the two.

The music pounded to a climax, and with a triumphant flourish, I flung my left knife at the crowd. The young lady who happened to be in the direct line of fire shrieked as a cloud of smoke exploded before her, and there again was Serin, sans shawl, holding my knife. We juggled and tumbled, coming ever closer to the fire. The knives flashed, we stuck them in the ground, going to batons, now flaming, courtesy of the celebratory inferno. We threw to each other from opposite sides of the fire, the people always loved that part. Rald and Xœna broke in with a flamenco, and we came together for our finale, throwing the knives higher and higher, until in one fluid motion, the knives went higher than ever, and Serin jumped up on my shoulders, caught the knives, and continued juggling. After several flashes up there, I catapulted her up, and she landed beside me while I caught the knives. At least, that’s what was supposed to happen. I don’t know how it happened, I can’t remember that moment. Maybe I was off-centre, maybe I hesitated, but she went up, up, up, and then into the fire. I caught the knives and heard her scream.

My mental shock lifted with the dawn. Xœna was laying on his bed across the caravan.

“Where’s Serin? Is she alright?” I asked my brother groggily.

Xœna replied quietly, “She is badly burned. She’s in the medvan.”

I threw on a robe and rushed over. Great Auntie Em, Mama and Papa were there, along with all our siblings. Xœna came in behind me. Mama was at her left side, holding her hand. I came up to her on the right.

“Serin, Serin, I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I’m so sorry. I love you…” I sobbed.

Serin, fainter than faint, murmured, “It’s not your fault. I love you Avinash…”

I clasped her hand gently and kissed her. Then I started to sing. I poured my years of training into this one moment. My song was stronger than I’d ever felt before. I could almost see it surround her. At first there was no change, but then her face seemed more relaxed, like her pain was dimming. She smiled at me, but then cried out in pain. Then she died. My heart slowly ripped in half as my dear sister’s eyes glazed over. It was too little, too late.

____________________________________

Second submission Log in to see images!

This is (I hope) the saddest scene from my D&D character’s background story.

Huzzah for BP!

Log in to see images!

Log in to see images!

Okay, a decision has been made…

Since I can afford it, its a tie!

Handofg0d wins for honesty,

King Krimson for creativity.

I may decide to give LVH a point for trying, but he didn’t manage to make my deadline.

A mod will be notified of the results, and the winners should receive their BP shortly.