Never did we expect such power.

We stood awaiting orders that never came.

Night after night, day after day, our numbers grew.

We were unaware of the ultimate goals, but our count increased as efforts to grow our numbers through seeds planted subtly and the fluttering immersion that flowed nightly through the city.

We were regularly fed, and water was the only drink allowed.

Many days passed, and we stood staunch through rain and shine.

One day, we could feel the ground itself shudder long before the faint rumble of motorized destruction came to us.

We kept the friendships on the surface, as we knew the death toll would hit harder if we knew each other personally. I was paired… or at least next to Shamrock. I’m not sure if he’s Irish or not, but he was capped with a four-leafed clover insignia, so for lack of a better name, we took to calling him Shamrock.

We trembled, but knew we must stand strong. Though we would be cut down in staggering numbers, we could only hope for the best.

It finally arrived, and as expected, staccato sounds of my comrades as they fell—some fell fully, as if drawn and quartered—each fall sending shivers through me. The debris and shrapnel filled the air.

I was one of the lucky ones—thrice passed over.
After the second pass, I huddled together with Shamrock.
After the third pass, I looked over—and Shamrock had been sheared at the neck just below his cap.

The final pass came, as I knew it would… the death machine humming straight toward me.
But it stopped short.
The engine cut. It stood mere breaths away.
I waited.

“Mom, can I get some lemonade?” the young man hollered at the house.

Rhythmic and regular, the click and swish continue incessantly.
Each thread woven in sequence, layering side by side.
Slowly the colors emerge, interwoven amidst the threads designed to strengthen.
The cut of the fabric is shaped and molded.
Every stitch, meticulous; every fold, crucial.

The narrative robed in cloth.

The canvas set.
Every stroke vivid.
Every line drawn, nuanced.
Painting with deep, resonant colors.
The tones shift, the lighting rewrought.
Building in layers upon layers, each subject meticulously captured.
Standing back, we look again before changing direction.
Every subtlety intentional.
The canvas complete, the critics arise.

In painted prose—a novel.

We landed heavily throughout the city… most of us landed on the ground and slipped into hiding immediately.

I was one of the unlucky ones… I hit the roof, and without a purchase to stop me, bounced off of the edge of the highest level to the next, sliding uncontrollably toward the edge—over which was a hundred-foot drop to the ground, with nothing to break the fall.

I flattened myself, seeking a perch or crook and cranny to latch onto—something to slow my descent toward that looming precipice. Twice there was brief hope that didn’t pan out… and then finally, a crack within which I could slip.

Gathering myself, I squeezed through and slowly forced my way into the house, landing in the attic to search once again for an opening or way down.

I was exhausted and felt as if my intent was draining from me… eked out of me by the constant barriers placed before me… but I finally did find a narrow passage through which I could slide…

And there it was… but grip on the ceiling tenuous at best… the man stood below me, not knowing I was hanging here…

I struggled to hold on, but eventually I could grasp no longer and fell, landing full on the man’s head.

He reached up and swiped at me…

“Mary,” Bill hollered, as he wiped the water from his head.

“Mary! Mary!! Did you call the roofers? I think we’re leaking again.”

We had just left the bowling alley when a distraction by my friend allowed me to slip away from him.

Before he could stop me, I was already down the alley and rounding the corner.

A strong breeze at my back—a breath of tantalizing freedom.

Twice I was able to evade… staying just beyond the man’s grasp.

My friend, skirting across the tightly compacted rooftops, toppled piles and clattered debris in my wake. Reaching down, they caught me—but had not the strength to extract me. Even so, without the help, I’d have been caught for certain.

With one final burst, I flung myself against a fence… but the man caught up—struck me twice with his open hand.

He grabbed me with both hands, and—in slow, almost cinematic motion—he thrust his head toward me.

As his forehead closed in, I contemplated my fate.

For one brief, glorious moment, before being thrust back onto his head, I was free, thanks to my friend—the wind.

Death, meet Black Hole…

“They had not gone out together, in… damn… years,” she thought.

Humming quietly to herself, “…don’t expect it this time either, girl, but there is always hope. He finally buy me new sensible shoes yesterday, and they fit perfectly. And the black shoes even matched my cute little black top.”

They exercised together every day, and with all the new equipment he bought, they were able to shape up her droopy backside. Her reflection in the mirror on the garage wall was a testament to all the efforts.

As she hummed, she could feel him steal up behind her; she varied her tone, using short musical scales, to make him feel sneakier.

His touch made her heart race, and she shivered as he ran his hands along her long, lithe sides.

He slipped to his knees and kissed her once-saggy rear. She was not sure when that had become a daily ritual, or even why, but she loved it.

She had always been proud of her taut little backside, and as he touched her, she purred like a kitten in the warm sun. He smirked when she purred. Knowing the amount of work and the cost of all the equipment, it was worth it.

She wondered, “Is this the treat before we go out, or the disappointment before we stayed in?”

He stood and let his hand slowly slip over her side as he reached into her top, quickly undid the fastenings, and removed it.

She was now bare… nothing but the rubber soles touching the floor of the garage.

“He is going to get right to it, jumping in with both feet, without even a thought,” she mused happily.

Excited, he grabbed her, and true to her expectations, he slid forcefully into her. She screamed as he pressed the accelerator, and together, they roared out into the street.

“Excuse me, excuse me. Excuse me!” Aida repeated in ever-louder tones. Protect and deliver were his instructions, and… as Billy was wont to say… “by God, that’s what I will do!”

Jetting down the hallway, he skated around various people and automated delivery units. Not as efficient as one might expect, but they do the job. Mostly interoffice mail and the like. His job is to protect crucial packages and information from infiltrators, should it come to that.

Aida skidded around a corner, feeling almost like a dog or cat on a freshly waxed floor.

He was carrying a high-priority package. It was interoffice, but it was critical. Well… he knew this package was not… but the point was…

Aida threw himself against the wall, his chain gun blazing against the mock attacker. The red packets of paint deterred the man, but it took the blue sticky clay from his faux stun gun to stop the man’s android friend.

One day you will not be able to tell them apart, but that day is not today, Aida mused as he zipped through the last door and down two flights of stairs. He had practiced in this building at night for months. He knew every grip, every step. Every nook and corner were known to him, and from anywhere they put him, he knew the blind spots and where he could best defend himself.

Slinging himself over the railing, catching each flight as he dropped, he slipped onto the flight for floor 42. Less than three minutes… that might be his best time ever.

As he threw open the door and scanned the interior for deterrents, he reached in and pulled out the package, sliding up to the reception desk and gently placed it on the timer.

Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds.

The roar goes up from his team standing behind the desk.

The CEO held up his hands, and the crowd quieted. Walking over to Aida, the CEO grinned at him. “You are not much to look at, but it seems that you have bested every other option we have ever had by a full minute and a half. Congratulations.”

Aida didn’t move, his every fiber tense and expectant; he hovered as the CEO continued, the words swelling him to the core with pride.

“Keep putting him through scenarios… as difficult as you can think of… but… until then…”

He nods to the gathering. “Congratulations to the R and D, and…”

Turning to Aida, he grins, “and the first android-based AI Delivery Agent.”

The anticipation of the launch filled the room as everyone waited with bated breath.

The tanks of the rocket were full, and the countdown had begun.

This damned rickety control station, hastily constructed, rocked to and fro as everyone concerned focused on the impending launch. Somewhere, two solid objects of the control platform were thumping together in time with the rocking.

We can all feel the intensity of the moment… success or disaster… breath is held as the rocket is thrust into the air with mighty forces, jutting the tube out into space in search of life.

Exhausted, Daph falls limp from atop him, saying, “I need a cigarette.”

Tapping one out, he hands her one, then proceeds to light it for her.

“Thanks, Frederik. You’re a doll.”

The sounds have clicks and ticks and various inflections that I just cannot recreate.

Ever since I arrived, the natives… let’s call them benefactors… have been incessantly hovering, though, odd enough, their attention is erratic.

My food, normally provided regularly, is sometimes forgotten. This means I have to sidle up to the bars of my cell, screaming and hollering until someone shows up with food.

The same is true for my clothing. With no way to wash my clothing, I have to rely on my benefactors to provide me clean outfits.

They gather around.

The enormity of their size dwarfs my own, and this is reinforced regularly when strangers arrive and my benefactors show me off as the newest addition to their menagerie.

When they are not around, I sometimes find myself trying to emulate the simpler sounds. One day, I vow to be able to make them understand…

A benefactor—one in particular—seems to dote on me. I have come to think of it as female.

She talks to me all the time, though I think she does so without expectations of a response.

I smile at her when I can, trying to impart my appreciation of the things she does.

“Mmooahhmaahh,” she tells me, and seems to half wait before turning away.

I struggle to form the strange, unwieldy words, and I know I do not do them justice. “Maamaa,” I tell her.

“Bill. Bill! Come quick, he just said ‘mama’ and I think he might be able to do it again!”