Wood For The Trees

Daniela glared at the machinery.

“Shut it down Ted.”

“It’s over?”

“That’s science, sometimes right, sometimes wrong. Shame it took thirty-nine years.”

“What now?”

“Scrap the lot.”

 

Empty freeway, Chicago’s lights fading behind. Four billion people will never know I’ve tried. She turned the radio up, headlights swaying with Benny Goodman. I need a holiday, a week or two in the air; deck promenades, champagne at five thousand feet.

 

Daniela leant back against the ’19 BelAir’s fins. Twin moons shone down, scudding silver-blue discs shepherding iridescent rings across the heavens. Perfect. She smiled. Why’d I ever try to change it?

END

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