I hear nothing but the ticking.
The springs I implanted, the thrumming of gears, the rusty coils, and yet you wound me up. At least when I scream, the ticking stops, there’s a whir a click, and I must remember to inhale.
My heart is a bolt I cannot push or pry out.
You left batteries outside the platform of my ship. A memento, to keep with me at all times in case I see you. But they are now centuries old, caked with acid. I should’ve told you to gift renewable instead.
You had me at compressor, accelerator, clutch.
Lyndsie Manusos’s work has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Apex Magazine, Apparition Lit, and other publications. She lives in Indianapolis with her family and writes for Book Riot and Publishers Weekly.
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