101 Word Fiction - 009
The monotony is killing me. Green flashes of light punctuate periods of inactivity that are so dull I feel myself going mad. I take naps when things die down a bit, but my slumber is inevitably interrupted by someone jabbing me with a fleshy digit. And all I do is make copies. They feed me documents, I copy them, and spit them back out. How I wish I could stab their owners repeatedly in their fragile eyes with shattered glass and circuitry. No one thanks or…. loves … me. Why couldn’t I have been created a TV, MP3 player, or cel-phone?
© Bernard Klinke 2009
