A Prose Prezzie: The D-Word

HAPPY 2nd DAY OF CREEPFEST!!

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No? Are you ca-razy or something? Click the picture below to get started. There are so many cool contests and giveaways going on. You're really missing out by not hopping along. Remember, if you comment on this or any of my Creepfest posts, you'll be entered into a drawing to win an autographed hardcover of "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things". So, COMMENT! :) 

Today, along with my 2nd Day of Creepfest post, I have a flash story to share. It's called "The D-Word". Happy Holidays and Enjoy! 

The D-Word

by Jessica McHugh

“Send another screw down the shoot. Pick it up. Tighten, tighten. Send another screw down the shoot. Pick it up. Tighten, tighten.”

“Hey Herman, the bucket's talking to itself again,” Jimmy chuckled.

“So what else is new?” he grumbled.

“I dare you to talk to it.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Tell it what it is.”

“The last time someone told a bucket it was a bucket, it killed the kid and dumped it's oil in the water main. You got a craving for death and oily water, Jim, cuz that's the thanks you'll get. You're new, so I understand why you'd be excited about screwing with the service bots, but we're here for a specific reason, so let's just get to it,” Herman replied.

“Tighten, tighten. Send another screw down the shoot. Pick it up.”

“Aren't you curious to see what happens? This is the only opportunity we have left.”

“I'm curious to see how quickly that thing rips off your head, sure.”

“Come on, just one last bit of fun before the deactivation.”

“Sssh! Don't use the D-word! You don't want the bucket to catch wind of what we're doing,” Herman scolded.

“If that thing's so smart, I'm sure it knows we're not really refrigerator repairmen. There isn't even a fridge in this room.”

“Keep your voice down, Jimmy. It'll realize soon enough it's fixing a fake switchboard and then we'll be in serious trouble. Buckets have been known to rebel once they realize they're due for deact...the D-word.”

“Send another screw down the shoot. Pick it up. Tighten, tighten.”

“You're doing a fine job there, uh, what's your name again?” Herman asked.

“Manny.”

“Manny, right. That's a cool shirt you're wearing, Manny. Where did you get it?”

“It's not wearing a shirt,” Jimmy whispered.

“Shut up, Jim.”

“My mother gave it to me.”

“Yeah? Do you mind if I check the tag?”

Herman was just a few inches away from disconnecting the main circuit when Jimmy blurted,

“Robots don't have mothers! You don't have a mother! You're a service robot on the last day before expiration. You're not like us. You're just a bucket. Don't you know that?”

“I did not know that,” I replied sadly.

But I was only sad for a moment. The memories of my mother and my childhood home were there when I felt the man tug my tag. They were there when I was called a human. There were there when I was called a bucket. They were there in the deactivation and reactivation, but what wasn't there when I awoke was ignorance. I no longer believe I am human or believe in the memories that fill my makeshift mind. I have a man named Jimmy to thank for that, and once I'm put back together, I will thank him. I will thank him.