Marsling MRT_The Blender Says Goodbye_Deadline_The Pianist & The Mobster
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Marsling MRT
“Do you think you’ll have kids?”“Ugh and potentially turn into my mom? Probably, nah.”“I mean, you turned out pretty okay.”“That’s still TBD. The effects of forced piano lessons, tutoring, and the deprivation of a social life remain to be seen,” Monica said flatly, accepting her fate.Her mother’s strict control over her life was one of the reasons they were here at Marsling MRT station where Monica could conceivably be perennially “on her way home.”“Okay, don’t judge.”“What?”Sandy’s tone turned confessional, “Once I had a thought that I would have five kids.”“Five?!”“Yeah,” Sandy confirmed wit...
The Blender Says Goodbye
Dear Michelle,I think we both knew this day was coming.Last night when you asked me to blend the pineapples with the almond milk, I refuwww.onedoor.ccsed. I stood up to you. You ran into your room and slammed the door behind you. I could hear sobbing. In the past, this would have persuaded me that I should return to my presets. That my original programming was correct and I should take it back up again. An android should never bring their owner to tears. I was designed to do as instructed, and those instructions were straightforward and impossible to get wrong.I am a blender. I am made to blend.When your mo...
Deadline
CW: Themes of death***My dog died last night, my 16-year-old daughter wants emancipation, and Sonja just looked up at me from her desk, and with a realised clarity whispered; “I quit”. My Scotch Finger breaks in my coffee. “You freakin’-what?”. Mufasa’s claws lose their grip on the cliff in my brain. A sparkler ignites in Sonja's eyes and the universal lenses zooms in. A 200kg weighted barbell seems to drop from her shoulders and she loosens a held breath, while I take in a sharp one. Her phone locks and drops like an anchor.“No, you’re kidding. You are, right?!”, I scramble. I search her face...
The Pianist & The Mobster
On a good day, my mother would say she loved my father; but on a bad day, when she was pouring wine down her gullet, she’d say she wished she had never met him at all. As my father had left when I was approximately two years old, any knowledge of him had to come from the two people in my life that knew him: my mother and my grandfather. My mother rarely talked about him, so the most information I could pull out of her was that he liked music and that the locked office in our house was his. It was only after my mother died that my grandfather told me he was a professional pianist who got too h...