There are eight million stories in the Clockwork City ; will you pen one of them ? This hebdomad ’s Concept Art write Prompt is all about locating , location . Can you number up with a abbreviated narrative coif in this metropolis of interminably turning gears ?
Here ’s my tale from the City of Gears :
Pinter was n’t disturbed when the gears stopped , at least not at first . Interruptions in service were n’t coarse , but they happened , unremarkably when a alien very important person was in town and needed some superfluous prison term to get his motorcade from one gear to the next . He checked the clock , tracking how late he would be . But by the time the toll rang , signaling the end of Cross - Cultural Communications and the beginning of Applied Biomechanics , he get to check off his style against his tablet . He felt something small and sharp graze his cheek and skitter onto his desk . He picked it up and examined it : a small , chewed off fingernail . He whipped around to see Sashay Liang glaring at him , jab a ragged fingerbreadth into the air .
“ Stop that tapping , ” she hissed . Of course , she did n’t have a tablet to solicit on . None of the Thomas Kyd in his form did , relying instead on goggles — or even middleman lens — that reacted to the barely witting flutter of their eyes . And she did n’t have to care about getting to Niven Gear at the end of the day . In fact , Pinter would bet his meager biography ’s savings that no one in his word form had ever been to Niven Gear , not when they could well slum it on the Teeth .
Mr. Nguyen was predictably former for Ancient Programming Languages , and the common yack flickered across Pinter ’s tablet concealment : “ Nguyen will he get here ? ” “ If he does n’t show , Nguyen can we burn out this place ? ” “ Not if , but Nguyen . ” A figure appear in the threshold , but instead of Mr. Nguyen , a stack of battered TeraBoxes spilling from his branch , it was Madame Dufresne . She made eye link with Pinter and he arise , hugging his tablet to his bureau .
“ We had an airship crash , the rubble lodged itself right between the Teeth of Pratchett and Resnick . ” Pinter find out the wrinkles around her oral cavity crease and increase as she spoke , just cross-file her words . But when she told him they would n’t have the gears up and running until tomorrow , his vision went blurred and blue . “ It ’s to get us all back on the right schedule , ” she explicate . “ They ’ll turn them back on at the precise fourth dimension they went off today . ”
“ How far are we from Niven ’s sports meeting ? ” he asked , press the urge to let his stage sway beneath him .
“ A hundred and seventeen degrees , ” she said .
A hundred and seventeen degree ! Pratchett was the largest gearing in their band , and it would take him half a day to get that far on foundation . He suddenly wish he ’d seat in a magbike alternatively of buy that pricey veggie frother . “ What about the commuters ? ” he inquire .
“ Most of the businesses are putting them up in capsules . We can reserve one for you , too . ” She frowned . “ But you ’d probably rather stick around with one of your cast - match , would n’t you ? ”
Pinter peek inside the schoolroom , watching his form - mates snigger across engineering science so expensive and slick , it might as well be telepathy . He looked back at Madame Dufresne , trying on a affectionate smile . “ Right , ” he chuckled , “ of trend . Do n’t concern about me . ”
When he returned to his desk , he retard the content of his ring : two mochi cakes he ’d neglect to eat that morning while waiting for Niven to meet the Tooth close to his school , a pairing knife , a pullover , and a bottle of kombucha he ’d pour of his culture the dark before . He ’d have to tell his mom that the schoolhouse had gotten him a capsule ; no signified in interest her . But it would just be one nighttime in the big , richest geared wheel in the set . What was the worst that could come about ?
Fiction
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