I visited a writing group this morning. It was about what I expected– six conservative hating women in their fifties and sixties, writing off of prompts cut out of magazine clippings. I’m not sure that I at all fit in with them, but the practice is appreciated. We wrote to six prompts, each 6-8 minutes, and I thought that I’d share my best with you.
Mr. Thompson was a gentleman, as far as society was concerned. He wore a silk top hat with a black ribbon about the base, and his coat was brushed and pressed to a crisp. Intellectualism was the norm for the wealthy aristocracy, but I couldn’t help feel that Mr. Ezra Thompson took it too far when he invited me for tea and showed me his doomsday device.
It weighed fifty-ton and ran off of steam, he told me. Brass fittings with giant bolts and gears, the monstrosity of destruction took up the whole of his workshop.
“It is… interesting,” I said.
“It is amazing, Miss Dellia! The greatest invention of our time, perhaps!”
I wasn’t so sure. “Does it play games? There is an automaton… a machine that plays chess in the form of a Turk, I’d heard. Austrian make, perhaps?”
“No.” Mr. Thompson appeared put-out.
“Does it take snap shots, or inform one of the state of the weather?”
He confessed that it did neither.
“Well, what good is a devise that can neither play a game, nor take a snapshot, nor give one the weather? No, no, no, my dear Mr. Thompson, you must keep working.”
And he nodded, and set about redesigning the machine once more with the air of a scolded dog.
I’ll save the world yet.