The same morning she painted the robot, she decided
she should start writing again. Why the hell not, she
thought. What could it hurt?
The robot, so far, was pencilled in on a pale pink background.
He had a yellow head and a bright yellow button on his belly.
{I'm not sure what the button does if you push it. I'm not
certain she knows yet.} But it's tempting, so bright canary
yellow...touch me...try me.
She carried characters in her head. They were with her
all the time, lounging around in the background, eating
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the green velvet
couch, always getting their sticky, smeary fingers all over
the remote...jamming up the buttons...leaving sweet
sticky spots on the couch.
They were polite, though, and generally very quiet.
Occassionally, they would whisper things to her
while she trying to sleep or do the dishes. Things like
"She was tiny and blond with sharp shoulder blades
and a cutting smile" and they would try to make her
think the thoughts were her own. But she would
always catch on and send them, begrudgingly, back
to the couch, licking jam from their sticky raspberry
fingers while she attended to more important things...
the bills not yet paid, the grocery list have made, the
chores of life.
she should start writing again. Why the hell not, she
thought. What could it hurt?
The robot, so far, was pencilled in on a pale pink background.
He had a yellow head and a bright yellow button on his belly.
{I'm not sure what the button does if you push it. I'm not
certain she knows yet.} But it's tempting, so bright canary
yellow...touch me...try me.
She carried characters in her head. They were with her
all the time, lounging around in the background, eating
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the green velvet
couch, always getting their sticky, smeary fingers all over
the remote...jamming up the buttons...leaving sweet
sticky spots on the couch.
They were polite, though, and generally very quiet.
Occassionally, they would whisper things to her
while she trying to sleep or do the dishes. Things like
"She was tiny and blond with sharp shoulder blades
and a cutting smile" and they would try to make her
think the thoughts were her own. But she would
always catch on and send them, begrudgingly, back
to the couch, licking jam from their sticky raspberry
fingers while she attended to more important things...
the bills not yet paid, the grocery list have made, the
chores of life.
