Nobody knew where the old records were kept. Filing cabinets a distant memory. Everything was data. Invisible as the mountain air. So they relied on the logic of Star Trek to find a way forward. Somebody had found an old box set. Everybody left got a living wage. Everyone was comfy. The workers thought they were finally getting compensation. The idle thought they had fallen on hard times. A more slow paced world began to emerge. People breathed with a sigh of relief. And it was nice. Gone were the days of the machine. How they’d orginally dragged us out of the villages. Chased us out of the ancient woods. Made us toil for the the machine. With only enough fuel to keep standing. Not moving forward. How spiteful they could be after being pelted with rocks by ragged children, worse, eggs. To be outsmarted by someone so tiny, insignificant, they came down hard. And now the machine lies derelict. Didn’t take long for the spring wild flowers to decorate it. Reclaim it. I like looking at ruins.
By Mikael
The Bugle 