the machine a microfiction by: don shogren The madness begins at seven thirty-four in the morning, or sometimes at seven thirty-five, this only variation owing to some vestigial humanness in it all, for certainly the machine could be set to initialize itself at some precise time, sparing me the odd thirty second or so infusion of hope. Hope? No … thirty-some seconds of pause, is all—a pause of uncertain length to consider the inevitable, which is maddening in itself, so the madness begins either way at seven thirty-four, I suppose. Then again, there’s the way my mind wakes every day at seven thirty-two in anticipation of it all. Why? Ponk! … Ponk! … Ponk! Resoundingly, I’m reminded that there are beginnings and there are beginnings . And if the machine did fail to start one morning? No matter—more time to consider many more things until the inevitable resumes on a nearer block. Louder. On and on. Ponk! … Ponk! … Ponk! The machine is new to our side of the