11-27-2016, 01:37 PM
now don’t you understand…that I’m never changing who I am?
The robotic world of factories and smoke and billows seethes from Synth. She is perhaps the only one who can understand the mechanical method that turns in cogs and gears—the constant turning and soot that burns deep inside of the synthetic one.
This is the story of how the real girl becomes made of plastic.
Reagan looked at Synth, her nostrils flaring with the stench of death and rot as she peered down at the bird. The feathers of an azure and crimson hue stained the earth, and Reagan wished at once that she had the power to restore the young one to life. Alas, the fairies have had their way once more—Reagan is as plastic as they come. A cookie cutter for the modern generation; pumping out one more personality after the next until they are all as bland and factory made as the next. There is no character anymore—no depth. Just the sad state of knowing that everyone will be made just like each other—and As Synth moved with a hydraulic motion and a beautiful lilt that was just too perfect—plastic beauty, my precious Barbie—she seemed to be in constant search for information. As if she was looking to absorb something.
Reagan’s pelt bristled with a sense of unease, and with a better thought would have let the girl continue on her pre-determined robotic path, but her need compelled her.
Could such a mechanical beauty find her happiness in the wilderness of nowhere? She turns to follow Synth, keeping pace with her, eyeing her with a wariness becoming of a stranger to the wood.
“Though it flew away, I am sure that you will catch another. Will you eat the grasses, or will you take refuge in other means of sustenance?”
Just then, another comes—a spotty lady who seems to have the disdainful air about her. Reagan did not know who she was, except to give her name and location of residence—a yes, the feminists from the coast. She dipped her head in acknowledgement, but kept her eye on the new one.
What would come of bringing her home to Taiga, if it came to that?
This is the story of how the real girl becomes made of plastic.
Reagan looked at Synth, her nostrils flaring with the stench of death and rot as she peered down at the bird. The feathers of an azure and crimson hue stained the earth, and Reagan wished at once that she had the power to restore the young one to life. Alas, the fairies have had their way once more—Reagan is as plastic as they come. A cookie cutter for the modern generation; pumping out one more personality after the next until they are all as bland and factory made as the next. There is no character anymore—no depth. Just the sad state of knowing that everyone will be made just like each other—and As Synth moved with a hydraulic motion and a beautiful lilt that was just too perfect—plastic beauty, my precious Barbie—she seemed to be in constant search for information. As if she was looking to absorb something.
Reagan’s pelt bristled with a sense of unease, and with a better thought would have let the girl continue on her pre-determined robotic path, but her need compelled her.
Could such a mechanical beauty find her happiness in the wilderness of nowhere? She turns to follow Synth, keeping pace with her, eyeing her with a wariness becoming of a stranger to the wood.
“Though it flew away, I am sure that you will catch another. Will you eat the grasses, or will you take refuge in other means of sustenance?”
Just then, another comes—a spotty lady who seems to have the disdainful air about her. Reagan did not know who she was, except to give her name and location of residence—a yes, the feminists from the coast. She dipped her head in acknowledgement, but kept her eye on the new one.
What would come of bringing her home to Taiga, if it came to that?