The cracked well leaks
Ink unopposed
As chaos guides
The hand in prose
The message faint
Or unformed yet
Just pools and drips
As stains to set
What was held in
And in its place
Has been found out
Time can't erase
It was not age
Maybe neglect
Misuse for sure
That sparked the wreck
Foundation marred
Beyond repair
Ink blots the words
Be free, be fair
The cracked well leaks
Ink unopposed
As chaos guides
The hand in prose
The message faint
Or unformed yet
Just pools and drips
As stains to set
What was held in
And in its place
Has been found out
Time can't erase
It was not age
Maybe neglect
Misuse for sure
That sparked the wreck
Foundation marred
Beyond repair
Ink blots the words
Be free, be fair
I’ve been thinking about how we track battery levels on devices but rarely teach kids or adults to read their own capacity. I made this as a fridge tool for morning check-ins: name your weather, share your forecast, adjust the plan, still do your part. Curious what other parents would improve before I print it. Kids wanted to color it in so made a version for that too. I did use AI for image generation, I don't have those skills.
EXT. ROUGH NEIGHBORHOOD HOME - NIGHT
POV - A front door opens.
We step out from a worn, dim home into a rough block lit by spillover neon and failing streetlights. On the way out, just at the edge of frame, a MEDICAL BED sits in the dark.
From behind us:
VOICE (O.S.)
"Make sure you get the green one this time."
A few hacking coughs follow.
We do not turn back.
The POV continues forward.
At first, nothing is obvious. Just a strange precision in movement. A faint servo whir beneath footsteps. Small mechanical adjustments in balance. Not human.
EXT. CITY STREETS - NIGHT
A sequence of short, quiet movements through a functioning but faintly dystopian metropolis.
Sidewalks. Crosswalk signals. Vending glow. Distant traffic. Towers lit high above. Transit still running. Storefronts still open. The city is alive, but thinned out.
We keep moving.
The destination feels farther away than it should.
EXT. PARKING LOT EDGE / MEDICATION VENDING MACHINE - NIGHT
We arrive where a sidewalk meets a mostly empty parking lot.
A single lot light flickers overhead, buzzing.
Set against the edge of the lot is a vending machine. Old. Heavily used. Maintained just enough to keep operating. Its face is stocked not with drinks, but MEDICATIONS.
Rows of boxes and bottles. Different colors. Different labels. A machine built for routine dependence.
In the glass reflection, for the first time, we can make out who we have been following:
A ROBOT.
Modest in size. Functional. Worn but operational.
It steps closer. Scans the contents.
There! GREEN medicine among other nearby colors.
The robot stills. Refocuses. Intent.
It inserts coins. Metal clinks down through the machine.
From the sound, it has only a little more than it needs.
The robot reaches down, finds a STICK near the curb, and uses it to press the selection buttons. A practiced workaround. It is slightly too short to reach comfortably otherwise.
A beep.
The spiral begins to turn.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The robot leans in.
The medicine shifts forward.
The reflection sharpens in the glass as our focus narrows with it. Machine, box, coil, anticipation.
The spiral stops.
The medicine catches.
It hangs there.
Not fallen far enough. Not retrievable. Not enough.
Silence, except for the machine's hum and the buzz of the lot light.
The robot remains still.
Then: quick, measured reactions.
A slight movement toward the glass, testing the idea of jarring it loose.
Stop.
A glance down at the remaining coins in its palm.
Insufficient.
Its gaze shifts to the machine's patched exterior. Scrapes. Bent metal. Evidence of past tampering.
A pause.
Against protocol.
Its hand hovers near the damaged access panel.
Withdraws.
The robot lowers slightly. Not dramatic. Just the visible loss of the next option.
For the first time, we break POV.
WIDE - The robot stands alone before the machine, small beneath the buzzing light, the green medicine still suspended behind glass.
It presses the COIN RETURN button.
Nothing.
It waits.
Nothing.
The robot turns and leaves.
We do not follow.
The camera slowly lifts and drifts back, holding on the machine in the empty lot.
The stuck medicine remains in place.
The lot light flickers.
The robot's traveling sounds fade into the city.
The machine hums on.
CUT TO BLACK.