Robots are together.

ROBOTS

These are robots
And these robots are together
These robots are probably coming from a dance
With other robots
And they were moving their arms
Their dials were most likely set to nothing
And the time moved on
Their legs never rust
And their faces are fixed
Before they were in the forest
They were probably in a bar
Drinking and laughing
And they’ll be drinking and laughing
In a bar forever
The robots are metal
And probably have metal hearts
These robots are male and female
And they’re together
As an item or as kin
Or as like-minded strangers
One might be concerned
And the other might be sighing
They’re both in the brambles of a jungle

Their car broke down
They are arguing because they are robots
The robots were probably coming from a dance
At a bar
Where they drank and laughed
The robots probably crashed
Being that they came from a bar
Laughing and dancing and drinking
The female is concerned
And the robots are in the bramble

These are robots
Their eyes are holes
There are two of them
And they are walking together
One is pivoting its body
Perhaps it’s going to look at the other
Perhaps it’s going to complain
Perhaps it’s moving; there’s an obstacle
Perhaps it’s sad
Their antennas are crisscrossed
Their signals are skewed
One is concerned
They’re dials are not synchronized
One is concerned
They are robots
And they are made out of scrap.

He awoke on a rack, naked with no hair on his body. There was a pink bow tied on the head of penis, and a scar running up the length of his abs. His windows were open, except, the opposite way so that the window was in closed position, but air was coming in from above it. There was a cooler on the floor with five bass lined up perfectly inside, and a knife on the door with a blank note stuck to it. His dresser was turned upside down, and the drawers were all in a pile in the corner of his room. There was a very large grandfather clock beside him, so close to him that is he stuck out his tongue, he'd touch the casing of the clock. It's terrible.

This is a story.

MAJOR CONFLICT: He was sexually harassing a girl at work, and was being penalized for it. However, in his twisted reality, he felt that his sexual harassment was a-okay.

MAIN CHARACTER: Is a retard. He has a problem with sexual desires, and feels that what he does is an expression of love, not, indeed, sexual harassment. He becomes angry at his boss and coworkers for thinking that he was just out for the sex/sexual acts, and decides to kill his boss and make his dead body watch as he performs an act of necrophilia on his “lover.”

MOST IMPORTANT SCENE: The most important scene is when the main character kills his boss and the woman he “loves,” and has sex with her corpse.

THEME: The word “love” is so twisted in a lot of cases, that some peoples’ view of how to express it are twisted as a product. It also an exaggeration (for the most part) of how far people will go to get other people to understand their beliefs/feelings. That, or people are sick. I don’t know. I’m bs’ing this assignment, Mr. Craddock.

SETTING: In an office.

The most unfortunate thing happened to me today. I lost my job. But it wasn’t the fact that I lost my job that upset me. In fact, I wanted to lose my job. It’s the manner in which I lost my job that upsets me. I loved a girl at work, which is fine, but I suppose that it’s when you express your love that you get in trouble. Love, in the work setting, is not perceived as love. It’s stripped down to the carnal desires of the thing. It’s called “sexual harassment” and has taboos around it. But I wanted to be with the girl that I loved. The only problem, I suppose, is that she didn’t love me.

Eventually, she told my boss about my love for her, which as I said, had all sorts of taboos around it. My boss came to talk to me about it. He reprimanded me for harassing her sexually. I didn’t try to correct him and tell him that I simply loved her. I took his talking to and didn’t mouth off or quit, because that wasn’t the manner in which I wanted to leave me job.

I still loved the girl at work. I suppose that even if I tried, I couldn’t stop loving her. Love is a complicated venture, which is embarrassed by the work environment. They make it seem so indecent, so sexually driven. They don’t see the beauty in it. They don’t realize that love is such a strong emotion, and that it can’t be restricted or contained.

It seemed that she became less and less taken by me. Sometimes afraid. I can’t imagine why.

She told the boss about my love for her again. My boss gave me a final warning, and told me that I was going to be fired the next time that he received a complaint. I was angry, but I kept my anger in. This wasn’t how I wanted to lose my job. However, this made me dislike my boss even more. I began to feel sorry for him, though. He probably didn’t have love. He probably didn’t know what love was, outside of prostitutes. Maybe this was why he stripped it down to only it’s carnal desires.

I wouldn’t see her for hours because she would be on lunch break twice and three times a day, or so it seemed. That or the other guys at work would stop me from approaching her. I resented them all for the disregard for love, and became sad because they all probably only dealt with prostitutes, and therefore only saw love for it’s carnal desires.

It came to the day when I decided to leave work. The girl that I loved was there, and I saw her, and the boss didn’t say anything to me. So I took out my gun and I shot her. And then I shot my boss. And then I loved her body and propped my boss up against the wall and made him watch. I wanted his eyes to understand the true meaning of love. It wasn’t carnal. It was gentle. It was beautiful.

One of the guys saw me loving her dead body and was startled. He shot me in the arm with my own gun three times and wrestled me out of the building where he called the police. This wasn’t how I wanted to leave work. I wanted to leave with their bodies, and teach my boss an eternal lesson about love.

60 Second Writing Prompt.

The days of the week should be different.
Monday shouldn't be Monday.
It should be Death.
Tuesday should be Resurrection.
Wednesday should be Sleep.
Thursday should be Engagements
Friday should be Myself.

HATE LETTER FOR YOU

Dear Dr. Sordidfingers,

Christ Jesus you are so childish. I wish I could break your tongue sometimes. You're like a British chick school teacher with your words accented with pain and fingers drenched with sordidness. Christ I hate you. You make me feel like a woman. Not the natural kind. The insubordinate kind. The kind that sits in a sweatshop and works all day, and has to make every seam perfect and dot every t and cross every i. I'm fifteen years old, and it's completely unnecessary for me to write like I'm St. Paul or Charles Dickens. Why do you expect so much of me? Why do I have to make my words gleam? Polish my sentences with gold? Spit clean my paragraphs and dip my stories in divinity? I'm tired of hating my writing because you always have to piss on it. It's totally mediocre AND OKAY until you decide to take a leak all over my papers/computer! You're RIDICULOUS. And you expect me to keep you around, always driving me like a slave or an ox on a plow? I half want to cut your fingers off and tell you that your stubby hands are SUB-PAR. YOU, MY GOOD SIR, ARE A PISS-MONKEY WHO WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING. How does that make you feel? EVERYTHING THAT YOU EVER WRITE IS GOING TO MELT INTO A POOL OF LAME AND INCORRECT. Christ, man, how can you feel good about stomping on a fifteen year old boy's heart all the time? How can you sleep with the blood of my most important muscle on your foot? How do you kiss your children at night? I bet you don't even have children. I bet you don't even have parents anymore because they commit suicide. I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LIFE. YOU ARE NOT A DOCTOR. YOU ARE A MALPRACTICING DICK HEAD WHO LIKES TO DRINK THE TEARS AND BLOOD OF LITTLE CHILDREN WHO ARE TRYING TO BLOSSOM IN THE WORLD, WHO YOU BITE THEIR LEGS OFF SO ALL THEY CAN DO IS TRY TO WOBBLE TOWARDS SOME SORT OF SELF-PRIDE. I hate you, Dr. Sordidfingers, and you're NEVER going to be my doctor EVER again. GOOD. DAY.

Sincerely,

You don't even deserve to see my name.

P.S. I want my t-shirts back. And my mixtape.