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one-hundred-fifty-five-word story

Joselyn made her way into the house and could already feel her heart rate accelerating. She simply wasn’t prepared to deal with her rambunctious children. As she approached the mischievous giggling, she psyched herself for the scolding she’d have to give her kids for whatever trouble they’d been up to.

Genevieve, her six-year-old, intercepted her in the hallway, with ten-year-old Conrad not far behind.

“Mommy, we made a robot for you!”, they shouted together.

There was a mess of plastic and metal and wires strewn about, as if all the house’s electronic gadgets had committed hari-kiri on the kitchen floor. And in the middle stood her children’s creation. With arms akimbo, Joselyn leaned towards them and shook her head.

“Kids,” she began, “did you take the pneumatic stabilizers from Mommy’s workshop without asking?”

“We’re sorry,” confessed Genevieve.

“It’s okay, but your robot better be able to clean up this mess.”

“Directive acknowledged,” the robot replied.

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