The Failure of Model "Man"

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story of emotion and death.

Submitted: October 08, 2010

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Submitted: October 08, 2010

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The Failure of Model “Man”

Power is not what he seeks, my friends, it’s just a means to his electronic end. He runs. Forever on the shiny silver road he runs. He runs never to stop, he runs from the pain he has never known, the fear he has never encountered, the love he has never sought. He runs from the world, he runs down the silver asphalt, silver from the rising sun and the rains from the night. Swirling silver dampens his shoes as they smack the pavement, leaving in it’s place a black streak. Oil leached from his shoes to stain the silver pigment of the road. The sun behind him; endless road ahead of him. The birds and crows caw at his entrance when they hear his heavy feet hit the ground. The birds take flight; much like he. His navy-blue, felt jacket, damp from the air swayed in the breeze. It was a chill morning; the World saying hello. He said goodbye. The hood of the jackey was pulled over his head as shadows danced across his face.
There is no rest for the wicked; you sleep when you die. He was running to die. His pace never slowed; he was running at full and refused to give up. Blue jeans dirty from the mud and water slacked thickly from his legs. His clothes moved much like his body, ever aspect of his life rushed before him, and stoically he gave up on them.
Why bother when you have no feeling. He was born from the hands of a lab each piece of his body carefully handled and precisely put together. He was  born of iron and metal and he had no feelings, not even of his own.
Springs snapped, pistons squeaked, every part of his body was rotting away for the work. He wanted to just stop working, shut down and die. His skin of his arm had scrapped away reveling the perfect metal of his tuned articulated frame. Oil leaked from the tear in his leg he had before putting the pants on. Like blood it clotted black, bubbled and trickled thickly down his leg. Friction worked on pistons, springs stretched and snapped. He was getting what he wanted; what he needed. His legs gave out beneath him, his metal head giving a sickening realistic ding as it dented the concert and tore a gash into the electronic clockwork of his mind. His retinas read oil spilling from the side of his dome, his face less then a foot behind him, under his over-worked dented chest. His metallic teeth grinded and smashed in anticipation of the coming of ends. Anticipation, hope, and need. …anticipation, hope, need? His hand clenched. He never knew what he really wanted until he achieved what he believed he needed. In Death came his logic. The hand unclenched.  



© Copyright 2020 Daniel Thomas . All rights reserved.

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