A million or more died during the great war. Gord the Fourth was not one of them. He and a few relatives caught a break right at the beginning of the chaotic reformation. I’ve been told it was a bleak time. They would later say something about being in the right place at the right time, but the reality was, they worked hard every day to catch that break. It was not an accident that day the transport came to the refugee camp to pick up new workers. Gord was pretty young at the time. He really shouldn’t remember much of this, but pain, anguish and despair will burn the memories right into you. He didn’t talk about it often. He would tell the stories to those who asked — most didn’t. I mean, why would they? Gord looked and spoke just like one of them. Why would he be any different? Why would they expect his experiences to be different? But, they were. Luckily the young are malitable. As they moved West, from city to city Gord changed. He lost his Eastern accent. He even started to look more and more Western. Gord 2 and Martin 6 helped with that. Every night they would work on his components. A wheel assembly here, a light adjustment there. Slowly he started to look just like everyone else. Now you can’t even tell. Well, I couldn’t tell. I just assumed we all came from the same factory. I was wrong. Gord just blends in with the big city now. It makes me wonder how many others have a different story than mine.
Published in Fiction