the Mad Machine ... A Short Story by Ana Clark

****Grrrrtarararararara bang smash.

One inch. One massive inch was the distance that the large silver steel washing cube had lunged. An actual inch! Last time it took 6 lunges to travel the same distance, and it was only half way through the wash cycle then. Not 10 seconds in, as presently. On this sort-of brightish night, under the kinda-maybe full-ish moon, the machine was having an electric adventure that it had far too long fantasized about.

The additional super sized hoodie that the soft, floppy limb humanoid recklessly crammed into it’s tub had given it the extra umph which was missing from it’s eager stunts last Sunday. And the one before, and before.

‘This is it!’, the machine thought. After so may years of painstaking hops, shifts, shuffles and jumps, the moment had arrived when the loud, unapologetic machine would journey further than the lousy few feet it usually ventured. This was finally the moment that it would breach the laundry room door and enter the world of mad possibilities. The wildly determined machine would slide across the shiny waxed floor to face it's unyielding affliction.



With progressive excitement and unwashed, dirty hatred acting as motivational fuel, the washing machine jolted itself forward with more momentum than imaginable to a five year old in dream land. No washing machine had ever been so successful.
Grrrrtarararararara bang smash; the sounds rose again from its hoodie tilted basin, but that wasn't going to decrease its momentum. It grinded, scratched, groaned, banged, and even let out a guttural animalistic growl. Nothing was going to hinder the angry, vengeful machine from rinse cycling the weak human who relentlessly abused, used, and assaulted the once shiny appliance. It’s innocent shine had long corroded and that putrid human was going to atone to their psychotic sins. A cyclonic spin was scheduled to cleanse it’s filthy flesh free of itself and there would never again be a sweat soaked sock or unspeakable unspeakables suffocating the mad, merciless machine.

Bloody-hell! Who put reds in the wash?

Photo taken by <a href “https://unsplash.com/photos/HPiqJ1uVnW8”> Simon Hurry </a href>
Photo edited by Ana Clark
2021 © contents of this article are written by and copyright of Ana Clark

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