'She Feels Like a Robot' by Kristina Thornton

She blows raspberries, then on the hour, opens up and projects. Endlessly writing, processing then performing. Dragging and dropping the world...

Ukraine

Murder

Stolen dogs

The weather

In the surrounding glass her reflection reveals a shiny glint. ‘It’s 6 o’clock, I’m April Kent.’ Death and destruction into a sponge. ‘Now you’re up-to-date, it’s 3 minutes past 6.’ April pulls down the fader. The enunciating and coffee have left her dry.

At home, David asks April to iron his shirts. She asks him to put out the bin. She strokes the metal triangle up and down…

Front

Back

Sleeves

Collar

Turning the iron, she tuts at the limescale-filled holes. Her reflection in the silver surface reveals a glitch-flicker in her eyes. Steam billows into her face.

Each day is an echo of the last. The wife and mother algorithm ticks along. April daydreams about recording her nags and hitting play...

Have you brushed your teeth?

Tidy your room.

Have you done your homework?

Have you fed the dog?

April checks for metal in her ears, a tiny motherboard in her belly button or a chip in her nostrils but finds nothing.

After a walk and an enlightening chat about dinosaurs and space with the kids, April feels rebooted and goes to bed early. David slips in, tired, from the weekend switch off. He inserts the huge plug into the transformer. He shoves a wire into her mouth and into his phone. Both will be fully charged, ready for a new week.