The glass shattered, powerless against the magnitude of the storm. I raised my face to the sky, watching lightning strike as the rain met the . . .
Met the . . .
Her pencil screeched to a halt. It was a good run, comparatively — she’d thrown in a metaphor or two, maybe even felt an ounce of emotion — but, inevitably, her mind iced over. She needed coffee. Or perhaps to commune with the forest.
Coffee, she managed to think over the methodic click, click growing in her mind. 3:48, according to the glowing numbers on the oven. Past lunchtime, but no time for that. How, she wondered, did I . . . use to write . . . so much? Dirty dishes appeared in the sink before she could answer. It was 3:51 now, and she reminded her arm to reach for a mug. The gears in her mind spun faster, almost dizzying, but she clutched the handle until they slowed, one or two popping out of place. They might reproduce like a hydra, but she carried the mug to the coffeepot. Her feet stuck to the unmopped floor. Click, click, click. Done.
As she took a sip, a window cracked open in her mind — just enough to let a wry smile onto her face. The things writer’s block does to a person. She opened the kitchen window slightly, trying to think. Before, she could’ve scraped hundreds of words into a dungeon wall. Now, it was always too cold, too warm, too long since she’d slept. At least this story was more marketable. Her mind strayed to a deleted scene as a cool breeze momentarily returned color to her cheeks; the window slammed shut. Writer’s block. She was tired. She needed a nap.
Of course, she stayed up late that night, scrolling on her phone. She didn’t remember how she dealt with writer’s block before she had access to the internet. She didn’t remember much at all, but her attention turned back to the carousel of videos, the only thing that could match the frantic spinning of the gears. What gears? she wondered briefly. No more energy to think about that. She couldn’t help clinging to the manufactured kinship between her and the woman on the screen, laughing about her lost brain capacity.
So relatable.
You still need to do your dishes, don’t you?
Click.
It’s like a parasite’s taken over my brain. *laughs*
This smart mop works wonders for people like us. You don’t need to worry about cleaning.
Click, click.
*gears spinning*
Click, click, click.
You don’t have to worry.
*gears*
g e a r s . . .
She was peaceful now, breaths clicking in time. It was time to go to sleep so she could get to work tomorrow.
She must have been dreaming as her friend smiled at her conspiratorially. “Your algorithm really knows you.”
Then why am I seeing all these gears? Surely her friend would understand. They always fit together.
The smile froze. “They are you.” Piece by piece, the friend disappeared with each click, click, click . . .
Alarm clock. Time to wake up.
She got ready, drove, and arrived at the office like clockwork. She used to dictate story ideas during her commute, didn’t she?
She entered the office and said hello to her boss, who smiled mechanically. The lack of windows used to bother her. The smile also used to bother her, the one she returned now. The day passed like clockwork. Her company valued her now that she fit in. She was a cog in a well-oiled machine.
It was too cold to go outside on her break, so she told herself to pick up her notebook. Her mind was blank, and all she could write was gears.
This wasn’t . . . my story, she thought vaguely. I’m not . . .
Break was over. She plugged her veins back into her laptop. Cog, her boss whispered. Click, click, click. Her work booted up in her mind, growing to 89%, 97%, 99% of her capacity. Delete all other storage?
Smart mops. You don’t have to worry.
“Wait,” she hissed, gears screeching. She had a life, didn’t she? She opened her notebook (now on company time). She wasn’t gears, was she? She dragged an X through the precise, repetitive lines, a drop of blood falling on the page. And she prayed, somewhere, for a window to open. To feel the rain.