“Another day,” I thought, “another day in this cloudy utopian epitome of design: so lustrous, so pristine…”

And yet not a single word – nay, a letter – came into sight. How such a pity had wrought my rusty heart so. This was the average day in the land of Simpleton, where life was solved by numbers, not words. What reason did they have in a scientific world? Words were corruptible. They could be changed, altered, punctuation misplaced and misused. Numbers were infinite and pure, the rest dirty and disposable.

And what tinkered me most is that I once was part of it all. My “brethren” could not understand, for the day I found myself to be different left nothing the same. Surely bots like us were taught with similar tools, with 1’s and 0’s and countless equations. But I found more.

Letters, words, and whole pieces of literature were at my fingertips to read and write. You do know what “literature” is, right? You know, like a book? I was able to speak of thousands, but I did not speak. Bots were not supposed to speak. Then again, they did not stand below six feet either, let alone half the size.

I was alone. No one would ever want an insufficient trinket like me in a self-powered world. Spending most of my days in a dark, cramped alleyway became the norm for me.

That is, until he came. The thought still sends shivers down my circuits. I never met the man before, yet for some reason he became well-known to me in what was but seconds of time. It was not his ghost-pale skin accompanied by two hazel eyes of marble that enveloped me, nor was it his unkempt gentleman slacks of brown or rusted (dusted, I mean) trench coat that danced in the autumn wind.

It was what hung from his pockets. It left me in awe, shining like a jewel in a past-summer’s moonlight. A book, a righteous read that should have been foreign yet was so familiar.

I did not hesitate to follow. With haste in both my legs and heart I dashed onward. Surely it was a game of cat and mouse, but this rodent (how disgusting of a name yet my mind brings me to no other) would do anything for another scrap of food. It struck me odd of how such a piece was endangered in a place like Simpleton where no one ever fed upon it, but I did not ponder in thought for long.

Fate was calling my name.

The buildings passed like blurs in time. My eyes set themselves upon the man’s feet – every step and stride grew slower and slower. I could make out the laces of dark brown complexion, the dark and rubbery soles of his shoes that clapped against the ground upon every step. Even its plain, brown and leathery skin left me enamored. The silver streets, the chrome-made factories, the machines that stood tall and strong; they were all but specks of dust in my sight soon enough. They meant little to me anymore.

We passed through the gates one after another, and what came to my attention was something beyond miraculous. A field. A field filled with flowers, accompanied by the shine from a sun that roamed a clear blue sky. The petals of white absorbed its shine with pleasure, for they were cleaner than any cloud that ever decided to fly above Simpleton. The coat-wrapped figure then descended a hill in the distance, leaving me to savor the blissful scene.

I must have been there for hours, staring up into a canvas sky as I lay within the flora of angels. I was sure that I came to greet every flower I could find. Then, even more hours had past. Every pass of time was the same: quiet, calm, peaceful. It was only until later that I treaded the hill, and as I passed there loomed a great oaken tree.

I did not observe for long, for what truly caught my attention was beyond the grass-graced land. There was a house. But it was no ordinary house. It was not like the ones of metal and copper. It was of sophisticated stone, settled along the shores of a forsaken sea. I had found the end of the world as I knew it. I could not help but take a gander.
My feet: upon first step they sunk so quickly in the sand! I panicked then ceased my movements onward, returning to the border of green. Perhaps the end of the world was not for me. But still, I remained. Nights passed with days amidst the presence of this old, cobble home. My only friend was the sound of crashing waves by day, and the warmth of my scarf at night.

It was a present – a present from my creator. My Mother. But it was not the only one. There were reads and excerpts which satisfied my devilish need whole. She knew I was different, but she could only offer so much before she did not have any more. So I reread things. Once. Twice. Three times. And in times when I spoke of my desires (which was to and only to Mother), she would tell me to read things beyond the lines: to read the walls, the ground, even faces. One night, I read the shore. Another, the sand. That night was the house. At that moment I had come to notice it was not only the eyes of mine that were reading; he read me, that man in the house.

So the next day we came to terms. He walked out upon the sultry sand with ease, his black rubbery soles sinking only a little where mine had sunk a lot. Being so close he was able to read it all: my blonde kempt hair infested by grains of the beach’s soil, and my fragile metallic structure accompanied by a pair of blue eyes. He then grabbed the scarf with his thin, tender fingers and rubbed them softly like the fabric itself (at least, I believe it to be soft for that is what Mother told me).

My gaze then trapped his, and in a soft, somber tone he spoke, “You are not like them, are you?”
I continued to stare. The only sound present was the crashing of waves.

He chuckled ever so slightly, “You have been here for quite a while.”
After a great long pause he then offered his hand, “Perhaps you would like to come inside?”

Never before had I seen a hand like this. It was just like his leathery shoes, but its color was as pale as the petals in the flower fields.
I could not help but accept, and with a swift movement of his body he threw me upon his back. He walked on the sand for me. For once, I had finally felt at home.

We passed through yet another gate, but this time it was together. I stared upon the clean tiles of stone that lay below us. Its friends were a plump and round carpet in its center, a writing desk placed to the side outfitted with ink, quills and notes, and a beautiful velvet armchair for the king of the written word as I knew it. The man stopped a few steps after and placed me upon the ground.

He spoke as if the walls had ears, giving them his full attention, “This is Fondway Estate. It has been passed down from generation to generation, from son to daughter and son again.”

He leaned down to me and whispered, pointing to his chest, “I was left as the last.”

But my eyes were not focused on him. They were too busy taking in the cracked windows, the exquisite chandelier that loomed above us from a younger, more vibrant time. He patted me on the back to capture my attention, a gesture that felt anything but selfish for it was so welcoming. My head tilted slightly towards his, and we gazed yet again. This man felt so comfortable around me.

“Make yourself at home,” he said.

And to that I certainly did.
Days passed as my lust for literature was fulfilled as he introduced worlds hidden between pages to me. The days of that winter passed in silence, but it was a silence he and I came to hold so fondly and dear. Every morning we would read to ourselves, and every night he would read to me. Some nights we would even stare into the sky and wonder until our eyes could wonder no more, curious of how the constellations and stars ever arrived there in the first place. The only thing I was never able to read (I should remind you) was the letters he received occasionally as they slipped beneath the front door. I had no idea where they could have possibly come. Apparently, they were a different story. Regardless, I felt like someone finally understood me in this life of numbers and variables, for we varied far from everyone else.

Then one day on an early spring dawn he brought me up to the fields of flowers, upon the hill where the great oaken tree stood. The air was just as a remembered it – still, clean of the clashes and clangs heard constantly when I was in Simpleton. That town lay before us in the distance. He then took his seat as I continued to stand. He did not question it because he understood fully – the morning dew was my enemy. One wrong move and I would rust and cringe in what felt like an instant.
We spent time absorbing the scene, and then his voice broke the silence, “Do they miss you?”
I tilt my head upward towards him, my arms crossed and a brow raised.
He continued, “Them, I mean. Those people and machines down there in Simpleton.”

My brow raised even further, surprised that he knew the name. I almost forgot to nod amid the astonishment. But I forgot about Mother that time. Mother was different from the rest.

A chuckle came forth from what seemed like the deepest parts of his throat, “I know how you feel. I was surprised I was even allowed to enter. I guess they think people like us are gone.”

“What was he talking about?” I thought to myself.

In what seemed like a necessary tangent, he then turned his face towards mine, “Do you know what happens when you mix a Montague and a Capulet?”
Montague? Capulet? These names were new to me. He was able to tell by my blank stare.

He thought to himself for a moment, “Well, do you know what happens when you mix an acid with a base?”

Of course I did. Salt and water would be formed and the heat would be liberated. If one used said concentrated solutions of acid and base, there may be enough heat for part of the liquid to boil, causing the solution to splash– making what some would consider a small explosion. Every robot knew that. I nodded my head in agreement.

His head nodded as well, “That was her and I. At least to them we were.”

His stare then returned to the crystal city, but this time he focused so intensely that it felt like nothing would cease his attention, “The world was not like this a long time ago, mind you. Back then, it was only her and I. We settled here, next to these fields and the oaken tree, in the household of my family. We had wishes, dreams and promises in our minds, and in our hearts we would fulfill every one. She was a scientist, and I a writer.”

He reared his head towards an etching in the oaken tree. I strolled over to have a closer look: it was a heart, a heart with the names “Arthur and Ellie” carved inside its borders.

His voice – who shall forever after be known as Arthur’s – caught me by surprise, “But then one day everything changed. She heard of a grand place to be made near our stead, where people of the scientific mind could express themselves freely, but anything else was unacceptable. She wanted to go yet the thought sickened me – Ellie, my Ellie, to leave this love for good. It riddled me for days, but eventually it came to me that this is what she truly wanted. So I let her go. All that remained of her was a gift she gave me before her parting.”

A spring breeze filled the lull afterwards. We both began to absorb it all again, but this time it felt different: the petals in the flower fields were not as white, the skies not as blue, and the clouds over Simpleton stretched further every day.

Arthur’s hands held one another as he leaned downward, speaking beneath his breath, “Ellie and I had always wanted a son. His name would have been Ralphie.”

He reached into his trench coat pocket to pull out something I never would have expected. It was a scarf, a scarf both red and torn like the one I wore around my neck. He offered his hand to me just as he did a season ago, to which I undeniably accepted. He grabbed my scarf, pulled it gently from my neck and placed the stitches next to those of his own. The name “Ellie” was spelled out across the seams.
We both remained until the sun set. Upon its departure we returned home, to wonder for yet another night amongst a starry sky.

And on what seemed to be another day Arthur was no longer there. I woke to find myself alone, empty of his insightful words and remedies. He left without a word – nay, a letter – and that is what encouraged me to look beyond the obvious. Arthur never left without saying at least a word or two if he were to take a walk along the shore and think to himself. To my surprise I found the answer in his letters – more notably one that was addressed to him that same day.

“Treason,” it spoke.

“Treason to the land of Simpleton for living in such an unethical manner,” alone and to themselves where a man like Arthur spent his days writing and reading away. It was “inefficient” in their eyes.

But it did not only speak of him as an enemy of the people.

“Treason to the land of Simpleton for creating such an unethical manner,” to construct a bot so attuned to the way of man and not the unbiased conduct of machine. It was my Mother they spoke of – treason to her for creating a bot like me.

“The recipient of this letter who reflects the bloodline of a Fondway shall have three days to correspond and save one of the two, but one must remain,” it proclaimed.

And the penalty for treason was a penalty every man-like machine knew all too well: death.

It was then that I knew they wanted to break me (or fix me, in that manner), to choose between my mother or father. The thought ran through my circuitry: if I chose father to live I would be a traitor to Simpleton itself, but if I chose mother all it would take would be some “minor adjustments” and I would be back in line with my robot brethren soon enough. I needed time to think, and evening would arrive hastily in my pursuit for answers.

I did not know what to do anymore. I never was supposed to know. Never had I expected a rock and hard place to become my fondest friends, both caring and kind to these simple blue eyes. Stuck between art and science, words were the last of my worries; this poor little bot was speechless. These physical manifestations; they have bonded so close to my mechanical heart, to teach and love and care my heart and body, yet wrenched it ever so. The question came yet again. Should I been blessed for oil, or blood?

“Three days,” it said.

Three days until one or the other would meet their untimely end. The choice was mine.

Today was the fourth, and the day before came back like an abstract dream. It was therein the abandoned confines of Fondway Estate riddled by dust and debris of a brighter time that I pondered.
Plaguing the space with twiddling thumbs and feet I spoke freely, “Mother created me. I cannot deny that. Without her, I would be nothing.”
My steps then came to a halt. An excerpt of Shakespeare’s Caesar lay open on the mosaic ground – work synonymous to Satan in the scientific mindset of a new age.
My thoughts continued, “Yet because of him, I am something.”

Dragging my feeble legs to an untended window, I peered through the faded glasswork: outside, the chrome utopia of Simpleton surrounded by a quiet fog.

“Father, now I understand” murmured from my lips.
“You lived a harsh life. You were a man of the written word. Mother left you to create, like all those of science do in Simpleton. She left for the good of thousands.”

Rain crept through the cracks, falling fervently towards these metallic fingers of mine. I refrained, reminiscent of his fears.
“But all you wanted was the love of one.”
I slumped down the wall, “why can I not have both?”
By sundown I was tired of it all. Rain began to pour outside, accompanied by a distant clash of thunder. Resting in the walls of Fondway Estate my eyes searched through hundreds of titles given by a soon-to-be late Father. The pages ended without an answer. Papers and pamphlets flew across the dark, barren area, crashing into candles and cabinets alike. One struck a velvet armchair, the one where Father used to sit. It was where he sat to escape the world, and I could not help but stare in yearning desire to do the same. The chair released a calming creak, revealing yet another written piece lying on the seat. Running my fingers along its side, they gathered dust with every twist and turn.

“Why did they begin to judge the cover?” I asked myself.

Upon lifting my arm the title was revealed; in gilded, gleaming letters were the names Romeo and Juliet.

“What is this?” I released with an invigorating sigh.

I climbed my way clumsily into the chair and rummaged through the pages. I read it once. Twice.Three times. The rain continued to pour.
It was then that I had made a decision of my own as a large clash of thunder gleamed outside.

I turned to see the light flash before my eyes, and spoke for the first time since I have last seen my saint of a mother, “what light through yonder window breaks?”

Soon enough I climbed atop the great estate where I would take my stand. Every drop of rain was acid, but I did not care. Now, confronted with my foe off in the great distance – the glistening gold city of Simpleton – I raised the book to my side.

“Here will I remain with worms that are my chamber-maids,” I howled.

It continued to shine as it did since its untimely birth, and all it wished to pursue was death. This would be the day where the life I knew would perish, yet I remained vigilant. I had done my part of the deed, and now it was time for my enemy to do theirs.

I could not wait any longer, “come, bitter conduct, come unsavoury guide!”

And as those last sounds of valor escaped my rusted heart a bolt of lightning struck the house. I fell for what felt an eternity, and what followed afterward was complete darkness.

Everything this little robot knew, the poor little robot that would forever be known as Ralphie Fondway who felt neither man nor machine, was gone.

There was a long walk in store for me the next day, the sunrise a somber red with gentle strokes of orange above the outskirts of Simpleton, away from the crumbled remains of the Fondway Estate. It was where I felt at home now, on the hill with the grand old tree and pure-white flower fields that loomed before it. Approaching the towering oak I welcomed its leaves, shining bright reds and oranges as they swayed in the welcoming breeze.

“It would be the three of us,” I proclaimed, “right here.”

My mind was so set on the great oak before me that even the sinking sands or morning dew did not pose a threat to these ambitions of mine. My hand brushed along the old, roughened bark, curious of what could feel the same. Bricks, rocks, hearts; I did not want to think about it. On the other side was one etched into the wood, with names my heart and mind were all too familiar with: Arthur and Ellie.
I ran my fingers across the marking and thought, “this must feel softer. The softest.”

Laying the copy of Romeo and Juliet at the base of the tree it nestled peacefully under the names. Two doves then flew away from the tree’s branches. I sat, gazing off into the distance, my stitched red scarf held close to his chest.

“You are together again,” I said, “forever.”

It was simply another day.

If you have found this you have seen it all: the hill, the tree, the carving, the book, with this scribble of words and mannerisms pressed between the pages. I am by far in your debt and thank you for letting my voice be heard, even if it is heard by only one. But what I ask of you most is not fame or riches, solace or sympathies.

I ask of you to read. To write.To draw and sing and live and learn. If life has taught me anything it is that life and love should be accepted in all its forms. And when the sun has set and the stars swim in the sky we can’t help but think how much of an impact we leave on this great canvas of the universe. It causes some of us to lose hope while others pursue and strive beyond their limits, disregarding both love and life in sake of leaving a visible mark. But it was not about leaving a mark. It was never about leaving a mark. It was about making something beautiful for others to see, and even if the sights and sounds disappeared over time the meaning would remain timeless.

I do not know if seconds or years have passed since I have written this, but for you I am thankful.

Thank you for giving this cog some character.

The End.