Previously on Ficlets...

After the excitement my first two ficlets, I found myself at a loss for what to write. The first two stories were unsuccessful in the sense that they did not inspire anyone to continue them, so I wanted to try even harder this time to craft something that would inspire that reaction. I thought over a few of the "worlds" that I had created for previous stories of mine. None seemed right for this kind of thing, but one of those "worlds" had in it a series of ideas which were fascinating to me and which I thought could be the basis for another "world".

I have always been fascinated by some technologies whose time had passed due to their replacement by better technologies. What would have happened to those technologies had they not been surpassed? Would they have continued to develop? Would other unrelated technologies have continued to develop, like medicine and electricity?

Or, to put it another way, if the internal combustion engine and heavier-than-air flight had not been invented, and all the scientific minds of our time were still focused on steam and hot air balloons, would steam-powered airships be a feasible reality? Maybe, maybe not, but the general idea has always intrigued me.

As I thought of this, an image came into my head: a large ironclad airship being drug across a barren patch of ground, led into an aircraft graveyard, it's deflated balloon fluttering around it's bulk and whisking the dust on the ground. I had no concept of the characters or the full nature of the setting. Had no clue as to why the ship was being junked. I just had an image, one that fascinated me.

So, I sat down and started to write. Since I saw the airship being led in from above and to the side, I put my main character in a watchtower, giving him the same image of the scene I had. The character's name came to me just as I started writing. The story of why the ship was being junked came to me as I was writing the paragraph it was in. I still had no clue as to how the story was to continue, or where it would end up, but I left that to other people.

I got a few good ratings and a few comments, but no one went on with my story. So, I wrote the next part myself, and the next part, and the next. I still had no real clue as to where the story is going, but I held out hope that someone would come along and take it from me. The only obvious direction seemed to be some kind of steam-powered mechanical murder mystery, where the tough, hard working mechanic/supervisor discovers what really caused the boiler to explode. This idea, truthfully, bored me.

Then, as Morgan surveyed the bridge, the eye of my mind drifted around and I saw the little girl hiding in the corner. I stared at her for a moment and she at me, and suddenly I knew she was a ghost. Within a few minutes, the rest of the story came to me. I still couldn't quite see the end of the path, but I could now see that last bend that led to it.

I decided to post the story so far here while I plan out the rest of the tale, since I can't really back up my work at Ficlets.com and I am always a little wary of leaving the only copies of important stuff on someone else's servers. Also, I kinda wanted to see what all the parts of the story looked like when strung together.

I, as I said in my last post on the subject, would never claim this as great literature (wouldn't even claim it was good writing, it is after all just hastily edited first drafts), but I've had fun writing it and hopefully at least some of you will have fun reading it. I am starting to like the character of Morgan, though I still only see him primarily in silhouette and feel like I have gotten very little of him onto the page. He reminds me of a cross between my grandfather and Woodrow F. Call from Larry McMurtry's novel, Lonesome Dove.

I am not editing these, but just cutting them from the site and pasting them here, even though I had to make some painful cuts to get the parts under the 1024 character limit afforded to each ficlet. I kinda like the stark minimalism it gives the story.

And now, The Graveyard of the Flying Machines.

****** I

Morgan stood atop the watchtower and watched the new arrival grind across the hardpan. The genetically modified oxen pulling the airship strained as the other three in his crew goaded the great, elephant sized creatures forward. The deflated balloon that would normally hold it aloft fluttered about the ship’s bulk like a skirt.

Morgan grimaced. The muscles of his back were twisting again and this new arrival was making it worse. He looked and did not see an airship, but more work. Cataloging, prying, pulling apart the innards to see what was salvageable.

Most of the time he got these new arrivals in without knowing what might be wrong with them, but this was the President’s old ship and all knew the story. The steam turbine blew two weeks ago and killed five members of the President’s staff. So, the President was getting a new steel airship next month, better than this iron beast which had seen service for decades.

Morgan drained the last of his tea and started down the stairs, wincing as he walked.

II

The oxen strained forward a few more feet, the sweat in their fur glistening in the morning sun, the ropes attaching them to the airship slackening as they stopped. Johnson, Reynolds, and Payne yelled nonsense words at the beasts and slapped leather whips against their haunches. Payne stopped long enough to spit a long stream of tobacco between his round-toed boots. One of the oxen lifted it’s head and tried to bellow, but they were bred to be mute as well as large and all that came out was a breathy sigh, like a breeze blowing across a hot fire.

Morgan stared at the back of the airship. The wind picked up again, lifting the deflated balloon, and he saw the great gash in the ship’s tail. A massive hole opened on the side facing him with vicious-looking spikes of black iron splayed out around the rim. Puckers of metal, like tarry scar tissue, bulged up from the edges of the hole and ran away from it in all directions. The entire prop housing was gone, blown off and likely still lying in a field somewhere.

III

Morgan thought, sight unseen, that the other prop would still be good, assuming the trainsmen and ballonsmen had protected it in it’s travels. It was the boiler that had blown, so no hope of salvaging that, but he thought that, depending on which way the explosion went, the pistons, valves and flywheels might be still usable. But only to older models of airships, like this old iron giant before him. The new models had multiple expansion engines, so the parts would be useless to them.

The oxen went another few feet, and when they stopped one of them took the opportunity to spray a stream of urine that could have been used to put out a small house fire. Johnson got hit and jumped back, cursing. Reynolds and Payne nearly hit the dirt laughing.

Morgan guessed that they would have the ship in the strip bay by noon. He would let the others take a long lunch and a short nap, while he got to work for a bit in silence.

Then we’ll see, he thought. Then we’ll see what you got to offer, ya old iron bird.

IV

Morgan’s watch read 12:30. The voices of the other three coming from the bunkhouse had quieted, so Morgan assumed that they had gone to nap in the underground levels where it was cool. He told them to be back at 2, but expected them at 3.

Morgan went up the ladder propped against the airship. Twenty feet above the ground was the door into the main cabin. He pried it open and entered. The small round windows only let a little light into the hall. Morgan fumbled around for the stairs to the bridge and went up.

The bridge was on the top level of the ship and only the portion containing the levers, valves, and meters used to run the ship were under the covering at the back. The rest was open. Morgan strode out onto the deck. He tried to imagine what the view would be like in flight, at night with the ground stretched out like a dark, rumpled quilt in all directions.

It was likely due to this musing that he did not at first notice the small young girl crouched in a corner peeking around a bank of equipment.

V

He caught sight of the girl as he turned back to the bridge. A small yelp jumped from his lips. The girl was squatting behind a tall bank of equipment, half of her face hidden, one hand resting on the corner. Dirt ringed her fingernails and smudged her hands and face. Her reddish-blond hair was streaked and limp. The one eye that gazed out was wide open and large, a white river stone with settings of polished jade and onyx. The expression on her face was wary and somehow wise in an innocent, childish way.

Morgan advanced forward a few steps and she shrunk back behind the bank an inch. He stopped. He sighed and thought for a moment while he placed a fist in his back and stretched.

“Look, it’s ok. I’m not gonna hurt you, little girl.” He moved forward another step and she shrunk back again. Morgan thought for another moment. “I’m not gonna get you in trouble or anything. Nobody’s gonna get mad at you for stowing away.”

He made another step forward and she disappeared completely into the dark.

VI

Morgan walked forward to the center of the bridge and rested a hand on the pedestal where maps and charts normally sat. He stood and waited for her to show again.

When she did not he said: “Look, kid, please don’t make me come in there looking for you, ok? I really got a lotta stuff to get to, and I ain’t got time for this. If you come out I can help you.”

At those last two words the half hidden face appeared again. Morgan nodded to show he was serious. She slid silent from around the bank and he saw her in full.

She wore only a knee-length silk slip. Both the girl and the slip were thin and dingy. He put her age at about nine. There was something almost soggy looking about her, a contrast to the barren, not-quite-desert wastes around the graveyard.

The girl shuffled forward and Morgan knelt in front of her. Before he could speak, she opened her mouth.

His first thought was that there was something wrong with his ears.

VII

He saw her mouth moving and heard something, but could make out no words. It sounded like a small and wee version of the oxen’s mute bellows. Except it sounded reversed, as though she were inhaling the words.

Morgan shook his head to show this. She tried again. He could tell she was pouring everything she had into it. Still it was only that small, distant sigh.

Morgan shook his head again. A look of frustration came upon her and she sagged. She looked back up at him. Her hand snaked out and she laid her fingers upon his cheek. Her touch was dry, not quite warm, and light, like the skittering legs of a fly. She held them there for a moment that stretched to infinity and looked to be considering some unpleasant course. Then, she lowered her hand.

The look of frustration left and utter childish misery replaced it. She slumped to her rear, hugged her knees, rocked in silent, tearless weeping. Morgan reached out to her. She shrank away, jumped up, and ran back into the dark. He followed her, but she was gone.

To Be Continued...