1/11/11
Machine
The machine finally worked! Simon was as astonished as anyone to discover that the fixes he had attempted over and over had finally worked and for the second time in history, man would be able to travel to the moon.
Fitting the gaskets had been no real trouble, or at least, less trouble than he had expected. The real issue, as he had hoped against hope it would not be, was the cavorite. Dark stuff, but powerful. Three different governments were after him now, but soon none of that would matter. He would be safely away and where he was going, no one could follow.
It wasn’t that cavorite was even that rare – Her Majesty and the colonials both had air forces powered by the strange matter; it was that it was so dangerous to handle. Once unleashed it was almost impossible to restrain again. But he had found awe-inspiring new uses for it, and as most inventions are, a new way to control it, was devised out of necessity – no, desperation.
Until now, no one had ever used it for anything except its incredible lift capabilities. After all, dear God! – the stuff was immune to gravity! But everyone assumed that was the extent of its powers. No one dreamed… well, he had. And those dreams were about to come to their fruition. If he had read the machine correctly. If he had constructed it flawlessly. If a million other little things hadn’t gone wrong.
But he knew this time he would succeed – he was an engineer, after all, and knew when a machine was properly constructed. Twelve years in planning and another two to actually build it had given him plenty of time to factor in the details. Now all that was left was to enter the machine and throw the final switch. He had spent the last few hours checking and double-checking, and now, finally, it was time. Making sure his vacuum-sealed helmet was firmly in place, he opened the door to the machine and a Tyrannosaurus Rex stared back at him… oh dear Gods! He had traveled back in time!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Fiction Story #10 ("Glass")
1/10/11
Glass
It had been more than 35 years since he had seen her face the last time, but he recognized her instantly. A lifetime of living without her had crystallized her in his mind, and on more occasions than he cared to admit, even her memory had him smile.
They had been lovers for a short, passionate time. As they said, the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long – and their time had been as intense as it was brief. While they were together it was brilliant. They lit up the room wherever they went. Everyone could see it. But they could also see that it was not meant to last. She needed things he could not provide – not then. He was new to the world and it was new to him. He had a wanderlust that would not let him rest anywhere for long.
When they split, it was heartbreaking. They both cried, him for the first time in years, her for the last time for years to come. They knew something good was lost to them, but just how important this moment was, they would not fully understand for years. Something inside him died that day, and though he spent the next few decades traveling the glove, seeking adventure in every corner of the world, the thing he longed for most in this world he never found.
He wandered, not even knowing he was searching. Friends and family worried that he was running from something. Always on the move, it was easy to see why they’d jump to that conclusion. For years even he didn’t know what he was looking for. Not even he knew what he was running towards…
And then one day, he came around a corner and there she was, in an evening dress, hair still done up from the night before. She was covered in glass shards from the window above. Here lay the broken remains of the woman he once loved, and in that moment he felt his heart break again like the glass surrounding her. He had investigated more than a thousand homicide cases over the last three decades, but this was the first time he had ever cried at a crime scene.
Glass
It had been more than 35 years since he had seen her face the last time, but he recognized her instantly. A lifetime of living without her had crystallized her in his mind, and on more occasions than he cared to admit, even her memory had him smile.
They had been lovers for a short, passionate time. As they said, the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long – and their time had been as intense as it was brief. While they were together it was brilliant. They lit up the room wherever they went. Everyone could see it. But they could also see that it was not meant to last. She needed things he could not provide – not then. He was new to the world and it was new to him. He had a wanderlust that would not let him rest anywhere for long.
When they split, it was heartbreaking. They both cried, him for the first time in years, her for the last time for years to come. They knew something good was lost to them, but just how important this moment was, they would not fully understand for years. Something inside him died that day, and though he spent the next few decades traveling the glove, seeking adventure in every corner of the world, the thing he longed for most in this world he never found.
He wandered, not even knowing he was searching. Friends and family worried that he was running from something. Always on the move, it was easy to see why they’d jump to that conclusion. For years even he didn’t know what he was looking for. Not even he knew what he was running towards…
And then one day, he came around a corner and there she was, in an evening dress, hair still done up from the night before. She was covered in glass shards from the window above. Here lay the broken remains of the woman he once loved, and in that moment he felt his heart break again like the glass surrounding her. He had investigated more than a thousand homicide cases over the last three decades, but this was the first time he had ever cried at a crime scene.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Fiction Story #9 ("Camera")
1/9/11
Film
She had watched the whole world through the lens of a camera. Always recording, documenting, taking photographs as a way to remember things. Important events, birthdays, parties, even at nice dinners, she’d break out the camera.
As a little girl, she found her grandfather’s Polaroid in the attic one afternoon while snooping around. It had been raining for days, and the family house still held a mystery behind every door. Or at least, it had seemed that way until she found the box with his camera in it. Something about the small metal case with its gleaming glass eye shining out at her and suddenly she didn’t see the dust or the scratches or the worn-out strap, but only its potential.
Unlike her affinity for dolls, horses, or tigers, her obsession with the camera refused to fade, but only seemed to deepen as she got older. There were always new accessories to buy and new equipment to buy. A new process to learn or a new technique to study – it seemed to have no end, and she couldn’t be happier. She loved the essence of its simplicity: a box, film, a lens. Exposing the dark film to light for only a fraction of a second, capturing that singular moment of time – but not only taking the photograph, but the process of shedding light on something that had lived in darkness its whole life.
Years later, she would look back in wonder at the photos she had taken and weep. Preserved so perfectly, the images never changed. Though the world kept turning, and the unstoppable march of seasons trudged on, she knew what Rockefeller Plaza looked like in the winter of 2072.
Even now that the buildings were destroyed, the surrounding water long since poisoned, she had her photos. The world could take everything, and even though she knew she would have no children to pass on these dreams, a hope stayed in her mind that one day someone would find her hiding in here. That they might find her and the treasures she kept – a lifetime laid out in a series of chemical processes on paper – and that they would remember.
Film
She had watched the whole world through the lens of a camera. Always recording, documenting, taking photographs as a way to remember things. Important events, birthdays, parties, even at nice dinners, she’d break out the camera.
As a little girl, she found her grandfather’s Polaroid in the attic one afternoon while snooping around. It had been raining for days, and the family house still held a mystery behind every door. Or at least, it had seemed that way until she found the box with his camera in it. Something about the small metal case with its gleaming glass eye shining out at her and suddenly she didn’t see the dust or the scratches or the worn-out strap, but only its potential.
Unlike her affinity for dolls, horses, or tigers, her obsession with the camera refused to fade, but only seemed to deepen as she got older. There were always new accessories to buy and new equipment to buy. A new process to learn or a new technique to study – it seemed to have no end, and she couldn’t be happier. She loved the essence of its simplicity: a box, film, a lens. Exposing the dark film to light for only a fraction of a second, capturing that singular moment of time – but not only taking the photograph, but the process of shedding light on something that had lived in darkness its whole life.
Years later, she would look back in wonder at the photos she had taken and weep. Preserved so perfectly, the images never changed. Though the world kept turning, and the unstoppable march of seasons trudged on, she knew what Rockefeller Plaza looked like in the winter of 2072.
Even now that the buildings were destroyed, the surrounding water long since poisoned, she had her photos. The world could take everything, and even though she knew she would have no children to pass on these dreams, a hope stayed in her mind that one day someone would find her hiding in here. That they might find her and the treasures she kept – a lifetime laid out in a series of chemical processes on paper – and that they would remember.
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