Prose

Botball
Botbal...it rhymes with softball.
So go to botball,
Before they kill us all.
The magic 8 ball,
Says go to botball,
Otherwise be attacked by Sol,
And in frothy violence,
The robots dance.
-Molly Bartell, 2006

The smell of spring drifts through the window.
The image of green grass, bright sun, blue sky.
Wildflowers everywhere!
And the wonderful whir of moving motors, cheerfully moving around the waving stalks
Carefully using the analog sensors to prevent the beauties from being crushed
Pausing to soak in the sun for their solar powered panels
And dream of the Mars rovers.
They linger in the sunny field, melting in their own happiness
As their handyboards overheat and their legos meld into one.
They slowly revert make into bubbles of metal and plastic.
They die happy though.
Dreaming of the Mars rovers.
-Anu Bhooshan, 2005