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Flesh-Thing-Personal Narrative

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Every morning, first thing, a cup of recaf with artificial sweetener. She drinks it slow, each sip an experience, from a bone-china cup stained yellowish with years of use. I bring it to her quick, before she’s out of bed, and then she’ll thank me, and rub the cogs in the back of me gently. Like she would a flesh-thing. She’s good to me, for a busy woman, an important woman. All day writing, fingers flying, and I fetch her pens, and sweet things to eat, and I take down the notes she asks for in that same soft, mellow voice. A scribe, she is. A scribe of Holy Terra. Brought me there and all. It’s brighter than I thought, back when I was a flesh-boy. I was going to be a mechanic, fix things up, maybe they’d have let me come there and fix something big and shiny, like the ships I can see dock outside her windows. They light up golden against the purple-dark of the late evening, when she leaves me resting by the desk to go out with her fellows. At night, before bed, she’ll put me down to recharge for the morning, but until then, she lets me watch. She knows things about me, you see. Most people, they don’t see the tiny bits of flesh-boy Eamon left in me, when they made me what I am. She does, she sees everything, always. …show more content…

And then, and now, I hear the tap-thump of her booted feet on the stairs. She’d left her data-slate glowing, maybe I should switch it off before she sees? Better to not. She’s through the door now, besides, in a glowing whirl of colour. She turns to me, a sharp chirrup of her tongue, not even a word, but an instruction nonetheless, to take her coat and fetch her a clean data-slate for more notes. The coat is heavy for me, and I waver on my moorings, shaky and burdened by the drape of heavy indigo

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