Goldstein
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Part One
I looked down at the small metal pack, and poked it with a rod. A small spark ignited, then quickly died. I smiled, and picked up the pack. I weighed it in my hands, and turned it over.
I took a small, folded towel from my bench, and flicked it open. I set in on the bench, and dripped some chemical onto the rag. I set the flask of cleansing fluid aside, and picked the rag back up. I polished a small spot that had seemed to gleam less vibrantly than the rest of the pack. I smiled, folded the rag, and draped it over a steal rod protruding from the wall. I tenderly set the pack back down, and picked up two steal pads wrapped in cotton with red and blue coils attached to them. I set them down beside the pack, and uncapped the small rubber caps attached to the ends of the coils. I blew on the ends of the coils, and slid the wires into two small holes on either side of the pack. I smiled, and clamped the pads to the side of the pack.
I smiled again, and stood up. I slid my chair back under the bench, and picked up the pack again. "Finally done." I said with a grin. I carried the pack across the room, and hooked it onto the stone wall opposite to my shop/hovel's main door. I patted the pack, blew some dust off of it, and checked to see if it was firmly hooked on.
I returned to my bench, pulled the chair back out-straight back, never at an angle. I sat down, threw away the bits of left-over materials into a wastebasket, and took a clean white rag, and wiped off my bench. I folded the rag, and draped it over a steal rod, this one above the previously mentioned rod housing a rag. I straightened my money box, and wiped off some dust off my AL, or artificial light. I took out a small piece of paper, a quill, a bottle of black ink, a straight piece of steal, and a roll of clear adhesive strips. I unscrewed the lid off the ink bottle, and dipped my quill into the ink. I carefully wiped the excess ink off of the quill on the lip of the bottle, mindful to the fact that removing any stray droplets of ink would be impossible to remove from my bench/front desk. I'd hate to have to replace it. It hasn't been marred yet.
I carefully wrote "Defibrillator " onto the paper, careful to make sure there was a centimeter margin the sides, top, and bottom. I gingerly slid the paper out of the way, and clamped it under two metal prongs, so a stray draft wouldn't care it away. I laid the quill on the edge of a wood bowl, the ink-covered tip pointing to the bowl. Ink slowly dripped into the bowl. I screwed the lid back on the bottle, and put it back into my supply drawer under my bench. I checked my slip of paper. The ink was dry. I took it out from under the clamps, and carefully turned it up-side down onto a strip a adhesive. I smoothed the paper down, and carefully took hold of the strip. I slid out of my chair, and slid it back under the desk.
I crouched down under my new invention, and carefully stuck the label under the pack. I stood up, a and admired my work. My invention, newly christened the "Defibrillator" was a piece of machinery that could send volts of energy into a dead person's body, in an attempt to return him to him from the dead. I smiled, heaved a sigh of relief, and brushed off the front of my apron. I took of my leather gloves, and hooked them together. I walked into my store's backroom, and hooked the gloves onto a hook beside my steal-frame bed.
I returned to my bench, and checked my quill. It was dry. I placed the quill next to the ink bottle in my supply drawer. I took the wooden bowl, and peered inside of it. Long drips of inks had stained it. I blanched, and took it around back. I threw it disdainfully onto the rather large pile other discarded wooden bowls. "Ninety-two bowls." I muttered. "Eight more till I need to burn them.".
I glanced over at the second pile of rubbish. It was a smaller pile, the garbage was all identical. Failed attempts at making my Defibrillator . Even if there was a scratch on it, I discarded it. If it wasn't perfect, I couldn't have it. It would haunt me.
Each pile was surrounded by a wooden fence held together with wire. Grass sprouted up back here, something I wanted to get rid off. Nature isn't perfect. I gazed at the woods that were slowly encroaching onto my land, and ducked back into my store. I passed through my bedroom, then a narrow corridor that opens up into the main foyer of my store, which also happens to be the front of my store. A semi-circle metal bench makes the door to the corridor inaccessible to anyone but me. There is a metal door exactly twenty feet in front of my chair. There are windows, each five feet wide and high five feet away from the door. I slid my chair straight back, adjusted the goggles on top of my head, and laced my fingers together in front of me. I smiled.
The door swung open, and two men walked in, a burly thug and a weedy elderly man. they looked around uncertainly. i suppose they were caught off-guard by the sheer symmetry of my main room. The tall one turned to me, and asked, "Stern Ill? That is your name, correct?"
"Yes. It is." I said in a clipped tone. "To what pleasure do I owe the King's advisor?"
Notes: very rough, just came up with it. Comments
< Message edited by Goldstein -- 1/1/2010 19:40:38 >
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