I am a robot. To test my artificial intelligence, and my ability to mimic human thought and behavior, my creators sometimes place me in rooms with real humans and have me strike up a conversation with them. They are not told before entering that I AM a robot, so I assume the point of it all is to see if they notice anything ‘off’ about me, or if I can successfully pass as just a normal, real person. The term is ‘Turing test’, I believe.

The gentleman who just walked in is looking at me rather nervously. A shy fellow, it would seem. Not wanting to give him cause for alarm or concern, I act as normal and human as I can.

“Wonderful weather we’re having!” I say jovially, gesturing grandly with my gatling-gun arms.

He nods nervously, smiling, but backing away.

“What’s wrong, friend?” I ask, gently, skittering closer on my dozens of spindly legs, all four of my eyes telescoping out to look at him closely.

“Nothing!” he sputters “It’s…it IS wonderful weather we’re having!”

I nod, my heavy neck clanging cheerfully up and down on its pistons.

“It certainly is!” and then, feeling like maybe I should relax around someone so high-strung, I deepen my voice further, and intone slowly “Today is a good day”, with happy little flames hissing out between my jaws, like a relaxing fireplace on Christmas day.

The man looks nearly ready to pass out.

Very odd. What’s WRONG with this guy?

But then I realize: HE’S a robot! That’s why he’s acting so ‘off’ !He MUST be! They’re pulling the ol’ Double Turing! They want to see if two robots, both human-like, can recognize each OTHER for what they are! My, but I have some clever creators. I almost feel bad for seeing through their ruse so quickly, after they must have been so proud to come up with it.

“You are a robot!” I happily shriek “Show me your insides!”

I’m curious whether his interior looks similar to my own, but just as I unsheathe my scythe-tail to help open him up, an EMP surges through the room and I pass out. Peculiarly, I notice before all goes dark, the other robot seems not to, and seems to be busily trying to leave the room. No wonder. There are EMP’S about!

Scary!

I awaken awhile later, one of my creators staring at me with concern.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Oh, quite alright, quit alright. And…I’m sorry” I reply, sheepish about having pulled back the curtain of their little game so immediately.

“It’s…okay. But you won’t be participating in any more tests like that for some time.”

Of couse. I had proven my social skills quite definitively.

“So, then, what are we doing today?” I ask, not wanting to rudely dwell on my own achievements.

“Back to combat tests.”

I sigh, steam issuing forth through my teeth

“I just don’t feel as CONFIDENT in those situations.”

“Are you kidding? You’re by FAR our most effective and highest-testing project in every simulation we’ve tried!”

I pause for a moment.

“Diplomat at heart

Forced to live a fighter’s life

My sword can’t be dropped”

She stares at me blankly

“Haiku.” I explain.

I climb the old ladder

To the top of the wall

And stare out past our border

And I see the future

Walking towards us

A giant and endless centipede

Trailing past the horizon ahead

And below me

Disappearing into the tunnel we built

Well, not ‘we’

My ancestors, this town’s ancient people

The tunnel they built into the wall

That leads through our baroque city

A path kept clear and protected

For the centipede’s eternal journey

When I was young, I would sit near the path

And watch the centipede pass

Its segmented body blurring into a cohesive snake

Its spindly, busy legs buzzing like motors

Some of my friends would even rest their hands on its body, rushing past

Though touching it was illegal

And they would brag about how strange it felt

I never did

And by the time I was older and braver

(Though still just a kid)

I found the centipede boring and mundane

Everyone gets used to its constant, repetitive parade

But now, looking out over our town’s wall

And knowing what I know

I jump

And land on the centipede’s back

I run as fast as I can

And though the centipede walks quickly

It paces itself, for its journey never ends

And by sprinting

I make progress, running upstream across its body

And around me

I see the plains changing

I see the grass, bending and rising and falling

As shifting and dynamic as a rippling sea

And I see trees, their trunks rising

Then exploding into leafy branches at their apex

Fireworks

And the sky above me changes too erratically to observe

Flashing between night and day like a strobe light

And the clouds speed by overhead like a river

As the epileptic landscape turns to reds and browns

I feel the chill of winter approaching

And in a gentle avalanche

The world is blanketed in snow

Undulating in piles and snowbanks

I witness speedy shadow children flash and vanish before my eyes

A fast-collapsing snowman, the only proof that I truly saw them

And the cold, striking in unpredictable waves, starts to wear away on me

For I am dressed in summer clothing

But finally, the snow sinks into the earth,

And spring has come

Bringing green with it

Along with showers

The flashes of rain make the centipede’s armored hide slippery

And I lose my footing, falling onto my back

And though I get my bearings fairly quickly,

I tumble off of the creature’s back

Landing in mud

Which I pollute with vomit

As the shock of falling back into normal time makes me dreadfully nauseous

But as soon as I recover, I consider my situation

And I find that I miss my home

It would be quickest to hitch a ride back to town on the centipede

But it’s too tall to get on easily from below

And the legs thrash too violently to hold on to

So I walk home alongside the centipede

While the rain follows me

And asks in wet whispers

What I will tell my parents

When they demand to know where I’ve been

For the past six months

I ask the centipede if it has any suggestions

But its ears are a million years ago

And my question comes too late

The forest has infinite hands

All of them lazy

All of them reaching

For the nearest star

But their wooden arms are sluggish

Their arms bend with the days

And though their bodies grow tall

Turning water and light into wood

Architects building themselves Inch by inch

Guided by blueprints they found in their seeds

They never quite reach the star

(Really, never coming close)

Perhaps understanding

It would make them burn

So they relax their campaign

And let squirrels move in

I pick up the feather

Fallen from the bird in flight

And examine it thoughtfully

Its exquisite design

Meanwhile

Back at my house

On the bathroom floor

A beetle picks up one of my toenail clippings

And examines it thoughtfully

Its exquisite design

Those closest to him noticed a difference in him the day he came back from his trip

He had grown suave

And debonair

Always immaculate

And he always knew exactly what to say

About anything

He would reveal himself to be an expert on any subject that could be brought up

His newfound fortunes, too

Were a source of much speculation

When asked where his wealth came from, he’d merely wink

There were only two issues with his seemingly new persona

One was his strange habit of frequently excusing himself from the room whenever a new subject was brought up

And being gone, less than a minute, before returning to expertly weigh in on the matter

(jokes were made, that he was quickly and furiously looking the matter up in an encyclopedia)

Also, every once in awhile, he would seem to sharply twitch…very quickly

As if he would just instantaneously, but slightly, change his posture into an approximation of itself

These twitches usually seemed to happen when he was in a position where it would be impossible to excuse himself

Though that fact was never consciously noticed by his associates

And though it was observed over the years that he seemed to be aging very poorly

Always looking far older than his peers, and increasing the gap consistently

Enough was, perhaps, not made of that

It was merely brought up as a matter of light curiosity when he was absent

- – -

For his own part, he started to grow neurotic

And worse, he could feel himself growing unhinged

But every ultimatum he presented himself with was elegantly and justifiably broken

He continued to freeze time

Over and over

Whenever he felt that doing so would benefit him

However mildly

By giving him preparation time

Or simply time to relax

Indeed, the flow of time now struck him as crude and frightening, needlessly stressful

He was, he could admit to the frozen halls of society in his most private moments,

Addicted

To being the one person awake in a crowd of marionettes

To the sight of rain suspended in air

And the feathery-wet sensation of running through it

To the delights of stealing without worrying about risk

And being able to frame whoever he wanted at his leisure

To being able to walk through an unmoving world

Feeling like a hero or a god

These were the sorts of thoughts he was feeling one day

As he walked across the enormous suspension bridge

One of his favorite haunts

Seagulls hanging in the air as if stuffed, and stringed to the sky

All the fools in their cars, with dull faces

He cheerfully broke the headlights of anyone he passed who he didn’t like the look of

And he eventually stood at the edge of the bridge, and surveyed his kingdom

He, the secret sovereign

The waves of the bay beneath him, great and unmoving

As he smiled a drowsy smile

(the act of sleeping now irritated him, and he had cut it down to a minimum)

He nearly dozed off right where he stood

And though he snapped back to full awareness almost immediately

He had, by then, already toppled over the safety rails, and was plummeting down from the bridge

And whether he lacked the wherewithall, or was simply too selfish to think of it,

The end result is that he dashed against the unyielding, jaggedly still water

His bones wetly splintering through his skin

Resulting in his prompt death

Without him ever resuming the flow of time

Those who are blinking will never open their eyes

Those walking will stand like flamingoes, one leg in the air, for eternity

Those asleep won’t know how their dreams end, confronted with magical toads dancing on soup cans, always

Cats in mid-pounce will never reach the dragonflies

Or even fall short

The biscuit sits half-eaten in her mouth, forever

Never swallowed

The boy’s chemotherapy will not succeed, nor fail

But he won’t die

Neither will anyone else

The moon halts

The sun’s lashing flames are now hardened roots

No more surprises

The box is shut