Apologies for the lapse in blogging, dear friends – real life had that annoying habit of getting in the way. Weddings, interviews – that sort of thing. Anyway. I’ve just been looking back through my notebook and discovered I actually have some reasonably decent work squirrelled away in there, so I must prompt myself to work on the stories. It’s really not good practice to leave them ‘festering’ like that.
In lieu of anything else, I thought I’d post an old flash fiction of mine, slightly edited. I give you…
“Yeah, we never thought the old girl would make it, but she has. War means nothing to her!” Caleb patted the generator. A kind smile creased his face.
Rising out of the concrete floor, the machine was a tumble of pistons, steam pumps and glass valves. Rust marked its metal skin like smallpox scars. It hummed quietly, an archaic melody out of place among the pragmatic Resistance.
“How much juice can she handle?” Philip stepped back to see the antique control panel. Needles flickered across coloured bars behind grimy panels. Buttons and levers, smeared with oil, covered the switchboard.
“Enough to power the Resistance. That’s all we’ll ever need.” Caleb grinned.
“I guess she’s the founder member then. Eighty years old and still running.”
Have your say!