Life of a robot boy

Kenneth Lynch, Staff Writer

Scientist I: Experiment ZAI-DCXX will be released to his residence in five hours. The Goldberg family will receive a check for $500 million at the end of their 25-year contract. Birth certificate, social security number, drivers license and college ID have arrived at his home. The Goldberg’s have named him Zakahrie Allan Goldberg. His birthday is June 20, 2005. He has a father, Stefen Goldberg, a mother, Sofyah Goldberg, baby twin sisters, Azurelia and Fuchsia Goldberg, and an older brother, Nelson Goldberg. He has a merry household with affectionate parents. In addition, we placed them in the lower-income bracket. When the parents aren’t working, they tend to their families in real time. Cameras are in their respective positions. They are not detectable or visible in the set up. There are no conflicts with the family or the boy.

Technician I: The drive is inserted in his head. The USB port is located under his lower right ear lobe,where his jawline begins.

Scientist II: His life will start when he is 19, but the memories on the drive makes it seem like he has been alive for his “entire past.” Are we ready for the release?

Memory Developer I: Remember, the experiment on hand is to determine whether or not a robot can fall in love. When ZAI-DCXX falls in love, deactivate him that night. We cannot risk anyone finding out about the experiment.

Scientist III: When the subject is deactivated, what will we do with all the individuals in his life?

Memory Developer I: An email will be sent to his school. It will say:

“To whom it may concern,

Zakahrie is undergoing extensive surgery for his heart disease (Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy). He has an estimated two months left. With this decision, Zakahrie made the choice to withdraw from the university to travel the world.

Sincerely,

Sofyah Goldberg”

Makeup Artist I: We placed dark brown contacts in his eyes. Hex code is #0a0703. He’s ready for release.

Zakahrie: (in his mind) College is a nightmare! I cannot fathom that I have assignment after assignment, it is like a ferris wheel but everyone who dismounts gives me an additional task. What pains me most is not feeling love. I wonder if the butterflies in my stomach are still in their cocoons. Fun fact, I have never been in love before, so I’m not exactly sure what it feels like. Sometimes I think I feel love, but I take two hours to move on from them. The brilliant metaphor to describe this is a painter sketching the scene in front of them, but she doesn’t finish the painting, so in the end, she rarely feels satisfied. How do you feel satisfied if what you do is unfinished? In the beginning of the year, when the clock struck midnight and the old year was plucked, I was underneath a table slurping 12 grapes. 2024 is my year for conquering fears and finding the love of my life. The last two months of the year and I think I’ve come across the perfect girl. Love makes you do crazy things, and I might have to do one last crazy act before the year ends.

You know – right before you’re about to accomplish something and you suddenly start to doubt yourself? I have not been able to sleep tonight for two reasons: One, it feels like there is someone watching me over my shoulder, and two, I might be going on a date! I planned on calling my parents this weekend to check up on them and my little sisters, but they’re in a different country right now where our timezones don’t align. I am slightly envious I was not invited, but school is really important to my parents. Once the world reversed itself and I saw the sun crawling on my blanket, I knew what today was. It was my breakthrough in the realm of fairytales and happy endings. Don’t let this confuse you, it was also the day I was dreading. I wore a white button down shirt with one less button on the top to show my chains. My pants were blue for the heartbreak that I could possibly endure. I wore feet-covering sandals so I couldn’t run away.

Memory Developer I: Start the deactivation process.
Zakahrie: (in his mind) It was a peculiar morning, perhaps I should have slept last night. As I walked closer towards my girlfriend the more I drifted from the plane. My darkness right before my eyes shut down and the blackness in the corner of my eyes caved in. I could feel hands covered in gloves preparing to pick me up. I’m not exactly sure what is happening, but I can say I told you so. Love for me is not for my endeavors but a loose end to a lonely forever.

“The Doormat”

Creative Writing

Emily Allgair, Author

Here lies the doormat.

Ah, yes. The good ole’ not yet, but almost, worn down doormat.

As you can see, each time the doormat is stepped on, the footprints their marks. Individually and collectively.

Some may argue that the doormat is used to this treatment, as he is exactly that: a doormat.

And if you ask him, he’d say the exact same thing. But, if you were to ask me, I would instead ask you to step around the doormat. Or over him. Even under him, just not on top of him.

I’d ask you to recall a time that the doormat wasn’t a doormat. I’d ask you to see why he is who he is, or rather what he is, depending on the length of which you are willing to look.

I’d ask you to remember how he was raised under a feminine hand, lacking the masculinity that society expected. To remember each societal disappointment, each speck of dirt, that this environment laid to eventually become his foundation.

I’d ask you to recall every comment, whether it be an external remark from a stranger on the street or an internal observation noted from glances in the mirror, and recognize the weight that they carry. How slowly, but surely, the doormat’s bristles catch and collect them.

But above all, I’d ask you to consider how the doormat’s inevitable comfortability with these dirt specks have been misconstrued to resemble an invitation for mud-covered boots to wipe their worries away.

So, yes. Here lies the doormat. The good ole’ reliable, beaten down doormat. Seventeen years of footprints putting the weight of the world on him and leaving it there, for him to deal with alone.

So please, step around the doormat. Or over him, even under him. Maybe just leave your shoes in the grass.

And if you’re feeling up to it, ask him what his name is. Because he has one, and sometimes he needs a little reminder of the worth behind it.

An ocean of my own

Creative Writing

Jakob Eiseman, Editor-in-Chief

Header Image: A24 — “The Lighthouse”

Drowning.
Dragged deep
Into an ocean of my own making.
Every single minute of the surface seen,
Is a mile dragged underneath. I see the horizon.
Exhaustion sets in early on as the sun fades.
But no amount of rest helps. I fall deep.
The waters will never take me,
They move and shake me,
They taunt me,
They even seem friendly,
But they will never release me. Indecisive.
If one state of my condition were to give in to the fall,
The rest might succeed. But if only a part of me succeeds whose goals are met?
The line has been spread too thin, one dimension is being torn apart.
What will become of me when I retire from the sunlight?
Will I feel lost, found, or will I feel nothing?
Falling and drowning deeper still.
The waves never stop.
They just change.

Rolling.