Ficlets

“You’re definitely not a handyman, are you?” I was sure I’d heard that before in some dream déjà vu.

Flashes of half-fabricated memories swept through my sight like page flippings of an out-of-order cartoon book. Her nose sat two inches above my face and I nearly fell in shock.

I did fall in shock. This is far more difficult than it sounds, as much of my body was already pressing against cold tile. My head hit the floor for what I later realized to be the second time.

“That hurt,” she said. “I don’t think you’ll need this any more.” Something cold and smooth pulled the screwdriver from my hand, which shivered at the touch.

“You’re back already? I thought you were going out to the mall. Err…” The woman laughed at my question and I soon realized that it was not the laugh of my wife. It was a vibrating, bright laugh that was not so much heard as felt, like a tuning fork on one’s teeth.

Before my eyes stood a metallic woman, KitchenAid etched lightly onto her forehead. Surely, I was going mad.