Monday, May 19, 2014

More Writing

This is the beginning of a story for our latest writing class.
I wake to the sound of rain pattering on the window at the head of my bed.  The Chrysler building is a welcome site, illuminated by the diffused lighting of a rainy day.  It's clearly a day meant to be spent in bed with a good book, even if my bedroom is a four by four by seven foot cubbyhole.

My alarm clock chirps a five minute warning, reminding that I wouldn't make it very far in my impromptu vacation.  With one last look at the gloomy New York day, I reluctantly press the door release.  The four foot wall at my feet slides open, while the window simulation at my head turns back to a blank white wall.  Shows over.

A familiar face is there to greet me as I hop out of my sleeping pod; then another, and another.  That doesn't mean much on a ship full of androids who look exactly alike.

The patches on all of our jumpsuits are still blank because we haven't made it to our posts yet.  Names can be necessary for identification while we work, but off hours it would just lead to socialization, and socialization could lead to all kinds of unnecessary expenses.

Not that that makes a difference.  After decades of time on the station, we've all become experts on body language.

"How's New York," Yellow 27 asks as he casually falls in step beside me.

"Gloomy.  How's your farm looking?" I ask, making polite conversation.

"Same ole," he shrugged as we arrived at the coffee dispencer.

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