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frickinchengMore original stuff. Influenced by reading Perdido Street Station. Completely work-safe and short.
“We have to go now, lovely.” Isaac whispered, more to the empty room around him than anything that could answer back or respond. His eyes swept over his workroom, taking in the details of the place that had been the center of his life for ten years.
He paused, and sighed a little, because this wasn’t the room, not the right one, at least. It was supposed to be alive, messy, lived in. There was supposed to be the silver bright shavings of copper, cogs, broken and whole, strewn about, various tools thrown haphazardly about. It was supposed to be stifling hot, the tiny forge at the corner glowing cherry-red and exuding heat.
It wasn’t supposed to be this cold, well swept little twenty by twenty square of empty space. Isaac just sighed, and turned back to his bag, the culmination of his work here, the reason he was running away during the dead of night.
A tiny squeak emanated from the bag and Isaac turned back making gentle shushing sounds.
“I know. It’s not as comfortable, but get used to it, and I promise I’ll get you a nice area….later.” He murmured cooed almost, tugging open the bag. Weakly trembling, an almost, hand slipped out, a construct of cogs, of thin red muscle stretched over a gleaming skeleton, pale nerves winding in and out, of its organic and inorganic matrix. Gently, he ran his fingers over the raw, half formed hand, which twitched at the contact, but flipped over, metallic tips brushing over Isaac’s calloused palm.
“I promise, lovely.” He whispered. “I won’t let them take you.” Hurt you. There was another sound, a soft sigh this time. Isaac let a tremulous smile cross his face, as the hand fell back into the pack, pulling the top back over it.
It’s only a matter of time.
Quickly, he slung a cloak over his shoulder, pulling the hood to hide his face. Carefully, he pulled the pack on, and slunk out of the room, escaping into the blessed anonymity of night.
“We have to go now, lovely.” Isaac whispered, more to the empty room around him than anything that could answer back or respond. His eyes swept over his workroom, taking in the details of the place that had been the center of his life for ten years.
He paused, and sighed a little, because this wasn’t the room, not the right one, at least. It was supposed to be alive, messy, lived in. There was supposed to be the silver bright shavings of copper, cogs, broken and whole, strewn about, various tools thrown haphazardly about. It was supposed to be stifling hot, the tiny forge at the corner glowing cherry-red and exuding heat.
It wasn’t supposed to be this cold, well swept little twenty by twenty square of empty space. Isaac just sighed, and turned back to his bag, the culmination of his work here, the reason he was running away during the dead of night.
A tiny squeak emanated from the bag and Isaac turned back making gentle shushing sounds.
“I know. It’s not as comfortable, but get used to it, and I promise I’ll get you a nice area….later.” He murmured cooed almost, tugging open the bag. Weakly trembling, an almost, hand slipped out, a construct of cogs, of thin red muscle stretched over a gleaming skeleton, pale nerves winding in and out, of its organic and inorganic matrix. Gently, he ran his fingers over the raw, half formed hand, which twitched at the contact, but flipped over, metallic tips brushing over Isaac’s calloused palm.
“I promise, lovely.” He whispered. “I won’t let them take you.” Hurt you. There was another sound, a soft sigh this time. Isaac let a tremulous smile cross his face, as the hand fell back into the pack, pulling the top back over it.
It’s only a matter of time.
Quickly, he slung a cloak over his shoulder, pulling the hood to hide his face. Carefully, he pulled the pack on, and slunk out of the room, escaping into the blessed anonymity of night.
