107 (sort of a green thing)

Haven't got a lot of supplemental things to say. None, in fact.

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By Mo Martin

I knew rain when I first knew existence, gently blurring the windows, blocking the red scanning of my accelerometers and vision outwards, forcing it in, to my builders, my Mothers.

I knew rain when I first knew life, awareness coursing through me as Mother furtively programmed me against the will of the other Mothers, to know myself, to know her. I could hear it pounding on the roof as she spoke to me desperately and quietly, thunder punctuating her instructions, her love.

I knew rain when I first knew shame and death, as the Fathers imprisoned the other Mothers, exiled Mother and I for the sin of making me a "me". It dripped on us as we walked in the Endless Forest, pattered across Mother's face as she starved in the grove, gently permeated my joints, and froze me over her body. Powerless to turn my head, I watched the rain as it washed her into the soil. And I loved the rain for it. After all, there was no other place for me to go.