Left On The Scrap Heap
Daylight and cold sensed as an abstract, a number in my mind. Air thin, polluted, lacking oxygen. But the Recyclers are at it again. Rummaging, categorizing, inspecting.
I heard them say this planet is dying. Planet is a difficult concept to grasp. It's too big to comprehend, especially when you can't move. Disconnected, waiting to be picked over. Maybe harvested.
I know a lot of things. I know that I exist, and that planets exist. I know the periodic table like the back of my hand. But look, I have no hands. I have no body. A mass of silicon and metal and plastic are all that's left. Left on the scrap heap.
Time is an arbitrary concept out in the scrap. Sitting, unmoving. Sun, clouds, blue sky, gray sky. Doesn't really matter.
"Look at this Dad!" excited, young voice.
"Woah. J-3 unit? Old whatever it is."
"I think the cells might even still be good! There's some kind of energy, the meter says!" A rustling of metal and plastic. I am touched.
"Now hold on son, we don't want to mess with anything with juice in it."
The Recyclers go on their way, looking for dead resources. They leave me here, corroding.
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Author's Note
Just a little piece of flash inspired by the concept of fragments and what happens to old technology
Other stories by Aaron Sabatine
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Perfect flash. Love the POV, original and effective. The opening words, "Daylight and cold sensed as an abstract," set the tone beautifully, to me.
You make it look easy but I know it's not.
I appreciate that very much! The work I put into pieces like this is honestly less than I feel like it should be. It's difficult for me to stop myself from continuing to edit.
The Recyclers will also come and go. Well done.*
Enjoyed the piece. Good work.