In my Creative Writing class today, we wrote in response to a prompt. It asked us to focus on creating a locked room, with a mysterious table. And I had to focus on using sensory imagery to set the scene – here is my piece:


The facility is deserted. I am alone. The only person, wait – syntax error, the only replicant here, alive, unalive, never alive, yet living. Inside me, the programming whirs, my logic circuits processing the data available; total darkness, black. No-one here to guide me, to direct me. Alone.

In the room, there is a table. I look at it dispassionately. I do everything dispassionately. I am not programmed for passion. For desire of any kind.

Hesitantly, my gyros whir and I reach out towards it. Fingers brush the cold surface. It is metal. It is a metal table. The table on which I was assembled. The table on which I will be disassembled.

The lights overhead switch on, they are blinding. I blink, my irises filter the light, focusing rapidly on the white-coated figure in front of me. He is my creator, my father, my God.

‘Get onto the table, FeLIX,’ he says, his voice cool.

I cannot read it. I cannot read his voice. I cannot… I am not programmed to understand human emotions. I am not programmed to…

He presses the master control switch on my spine and I stop processing. My body responds somatically to his commands.

I lift my legs and climb onto the table. I lie down. The lights are white, the lights are blinding.

He leans over me and opens my chest panel and opens my cranial panel and he separates out the living tissue from the inert machine.

‘Goodnight FeLIX,’ he says, as my vision fades to grey, letterboxes and stops.


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