I remember quite clearly the death of my father, though it happened before I was born. I don’t just know it from hearing stories; I came into life with a secret. I know things I should not.

Secrets are poisonous, as my mother found out many years ago.

You see, she had kept a secret from my father. It was about her upbringing.

She had kept the secret for years, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him.

So she screamed.

After the clamorous noise ceased, the sun peeked over the horizon to bring about a new, and happy, day.

Thus bees buzz, birds sing, and even willows cease to sag. This is my beloved country, and I love it as no man or woman before.

Maybe that is because I am not a man or a woman, but a robot. A very patriotic robot.

I believe in the American Dream. I want 2.5 robot babies and a white picket fence.

I never expected those robot babies to have so many malfunctions. I swear, we went to the mechanic every other week.

“Holy confetti, they get their fluids everywhere!” The poor mechanic was oft heard muttering to himself.

It was not going to be him cleaning it up… that’s for sure.

After all, he hadn’t signed up for this. Life as a nanny in this strip joint wasn’t all it was talked up to be.


These stories are collected from two evenings of collective story-telling at the theme house. Authors are credited in the tags.


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