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“I’m pregnant,” she said.    “But you’re a robot,” I said.
“You’re racist,” she said.    “Yes, but you’re a robot,” I said.
“That’s not funny,” she said.    “Robot,” I said.
“Stop saying that!” She said.    “Robot, robot, robot!” I said.

“You’re going to hurt my feelings,” she said.
“Poor robot,” I said.
“Boo hoo,” she said.       “Don’t cry,” I said.
“Oh?” She said.

“Robot,” I said.
“Robots have been crying for two thousand years, as you well know,” she said.
“Advanced robot,” I said.
“Be careful, or I’ll call your superiors,” she said.

“More robots,” I said.
“I don’t even know why you’re doing this,” she said.
“Robotic implants,” I said.
“That didn’t even make sense,” she said.

“Robotic logic,” I said.
“Are you stuck in a loop,” she said.
“A robot might think that,” I said.
“Do you need a repairman,” she said.

“A robot would like that,” I said.
“Maybe I'll recycle you,” she said.
“Robots don't care,” I said.
“Robots have been caring for twenty two hundred years,” she said.

“The first two hundred years must have been painful,” I said.
“No ducts,” she said.
“Dry as the day is long,” I said.
“It was an engineering problem,” she said.

“As the ancient Egyptians must have said,” I said.
“Don’t bring them up now!” She said.
“No robots?” I said.
“Not that we know of,” she said.

“Poor guys,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.   “And you might think about what a poor guy you’ll be if I leave!”
“No more robot?” I said.
“Do you even know who the robot is?” She said.

“Not any more.” I said.
“So it’s a fondly fahrenheit virus then?” She said.
“Most indubitably,” I said.
“Well, there’s ways to deal with that,” she said, and unplugged us.



A once-and-future English teacher, M. F. Morrison is currently working on Unknown Origin, a novel set in the near future-past.  Inquiries may be addressed to mfm773@gmail.com.
Current Issue
3 Oct 2022

Lying in bed last night I felt fingers reach in, grabbing. I opened in spite of myself as you clawed me with your fingernails, flattened, panicked. Split throat, iron tongue, white masks ranged overhead, the rings on their fingers scraping me as they reached in to take you.
from my tower we climb, shroud as my veil. We leap on his fae steed
I tell smug Cyclops that I’m as gay as the next mutant, and that all mutants find themselves within battles
Get ready to feel hungry, because the theme for this quarterly roundup is food.
Friday: The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo 
Issue 26 Sep 2022
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By: Cat T.
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