Rusted Tears

Rusted Tears

A Story by Infamous Real
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A machine wakes to meet her creator.

"
Rusted Tears
Genre: Sci-fi, Fantasy, Steampunk

Lyric Inspiration: Rise by Powerman 5000
A man made machine/
Now say what you mean/
Sit down and build us a soul/

“Good morning, Myriad.”
Myriad’s eyes fluttered opened to reveal the hazy image of a wiry old man standing over her with a kindly smile across his face. The man had a large round nose and dozens of wrinkles that made him appear more like a prune than a person. Brown spots covered his balding forehead were only a few faithful long gray hairs remained at their stations. He did not ware the normal spectacles of an older gentlemen but rather a special pair that had a magnification chamber on the left eye like the ones jewelers or clocksmiths use for their trade.
“Good morning, father.” Myriad said in a faint whisper. Her voice was soft and sweet like the sound of a gentle falling rain. But as sweet as it was, Myriad thought that there was something foreign about her voice. It was as if the sound filling the air was not coming from her lips but from the mouth of a stranger who had just violated the sanctity of another person's home.
“You’re not used to your own voice yet, are you?”
“What?” Myriad felt surprised. How did the old man know her thoughts?
“I know you,” The old man chuckled. “That and I can see the confusion in your eyes.”
Myriad’s mind was reeling with so many unanswered questions from where she was to why things felt so strange. However, the old man’s chuckle gave her a small amount of comfort as if everything would be alright in due time.
“Can you sit up?”
The old man stepped back from the bench. Myriad rose up and placed her feet on the floor. There was a metal clank when she heard the souls of her feet make contact with the steel grates below. Glazed windows covered the entire slanted ceiling and ran down the the shorter wall that followed the narrow length of the room. The windows let in enough light through the glazing to give the room a pleasant white haze. Various green plants hung with large shiny leaves hung from chained pots suspended from the window framing. Mixed among the hanging plants were a verity of bronze and silver mechanical parts arranged about the room like metallic mobiles. The smell of flowers hung in the air like the sweet aura of heaven. A rusty metal porthole with a brown wheel was set into the furthermost wall from the wooden workbench where Myriad was sitting at the moment. Shelves full of flowers mixed in-between iron tools filled the room from the floor to above one's own head. A large copper vat with a green bubbling liquid sat humming in one corner as the tubing surrounding the contraption ran across the long wall to a table full of beakers, test tubs, and vile of multicolored liquids.
Myriad gasped as she saw two metallic arms lying lifeless and unattached along with a series of bolts and a screwdriver sitting on a table near her position. She moved her own arms out in front of her gaze and saw the metallic joints in her hands where knuckles should have been. Her arms resembled those of the ones sitting on the other table. It was the same golden metal tips on all fingers and the same silver gantlets. Neither were rounded like a normal human but stopped at a blunt cylinder like end. The surprise of the sight of her hands suddenly faded into a feeling of normality. She questioned in her mind why all of sudden the sight of metal fingers was normal. She asked herself if they were always meant to be like this?
“I can make all of the fine adjustments I want,” the old man said, “but a gem, such as yourself, still has to make the last of the adjustments on your own.”
Myriad looked into the old man’s eyes as he gleamed with pride. He looked as happy as a father beholding his newly born child. Myriad felt within herself a similar sense of joy welling up like an overflowing spring. The old man reached into the front pocket of his brown leather apron and produced a red oily handkerchief. He reached the handkerchief up to Myriads face. She pulled away from his hand.
“It’s okay.” He said softly taking his handkerchief and gently wiping her cheeks. “I’m merely wiping the tears away so you don’t rust.”
“I can cry?”
“Of course, you have all the functions of any other normal lady your age.”
“But I’m not normal,” Myriad said with a sigh turning her gaze away from the old man and towards the floor. She saw the metallic joints of her knees poking out from underneath the hem of her black pleated skirt.
“That’s right, you’re not normal.” The old man placed his finger under her chin and raised her gaze back towards his own. “You’re special, and don’t you ever forget that.”
Myriad smiled and then wrapped her arms around the slender frame of her father. The old man was startled by the act for just a moment but at after the initial shock he placed his own arms around the girl and gave her a gentle pat on her back. She felt warmth radiating from the old man and she wandered if he felt the same warmth radiating from her. Liquid was gathering on the old man's leather work apron and staining it a dark shade. Myriad realized the liquid was coming from her. She was crying again.

© 2010 Infamous Real


Author's Note

Infamous Real
This was a response to a writing challenge to write a story inspired by a song.

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you built a good story.

Posted 9 Years Ago



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Added on July 16, 2010
Last Updated on July 16, 2010

Author

Infamous Real
Infamous Real

Columbia, MD



About
Combine humor with imagination and what do you get? How about one twisted mind. I am a firm believer that God has a sense of humor and I have proof. After all, he put me on this earth didn't He? A.. more..

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