FMJ
Technical Senior
The setting is a small town in northern Nevada . . . about 100 years from now.
Reviews and comments are welcome.
Miniature dust devils whirled down the road in the midday heat coming off the softening asphalt gathering and moving anything loose. If you looked close at the sign out front, you could just make out the name, Pop’s Garage, on the sand blasted metal. The constant wind scours away the paint almost as fast as it can be replaced.
Pete McCready, “Pop” to all the locals, had already finished a turbine oil change on Glen Smith’s convertible and replaced the injectors in an ancient diesel loader owned by the local gravel quarry. He was wiping his hands clean on a red shop towel and thinking about a cold grape soda sitting in that rocking chair under the canopy. His antique soda cooler that circulated ice cold water around the bottles used ten times the power to run than any solid-state unit, but it could make a soda really, really cold. He opened the heavily insulated lid, selected his favorite and maneuvered it through the metal maze to the delivery gate as he dropped an old metal nickel from the tin into the coin slot. Pulling the frosty bottle upward through the gate and walking to the rocking chair in the shade of the canopy, he skillfully removed the bottle cap on the metal edge of the support column. Pop took an icy sip and slowly sat down in the heavy wooden rocker with a sigh.
With his eyes closed, Pop mentally ticked off a list of jobs and chores completed and still to be done. “OK, I’m caught up for jobs promised and this is already Wednesday so I’ve got to get the office cleaned up before Mabel comes Thursday to do the books.” Mabel ran the beauty shop in town while doing accounting and financial planning work on the side. She owned her shop, handled the books for a half dozen other outfits, knew all the latest gossip in the county while singing in the church choir and still managed to volunteer time in the community.
Reviews and comments are welcome.
It Just Started Making
This Strange Noise
FMJ
This Strange Noise
FMJ
Miniature dust devils whirled down the road in the midday heat coming off the softening asphalt gathering and moving anything loose. If you looked close at the sign out front, you could just make out the name, Pop’s Garage, on the sand blasted metal. The constant wind scours away the paint almost as fast as it can be replaced.
Pete McCready, “Pop” to all the locals, had already finished a turbine oil change on Glen Smith’s convertible and replaced the injectors in an ancient diesel loader owned by the local gravel quarry. He was wiping his hands clean on a red shop towel and thinking about a cold grape soda sitting in that rocking chair under the canopy. His antique soda cooler that circulated ice cold water around the bottles used ten times the power to run than any solid-state unit, but it could make a soda really, really cold. He opened the heavily insulated lid, selected his favorite and maneuvered it through the metal maze to the delivery gate as he dropped an old metal nickel from the tin into the coin slot. Pulling the frosty bottle upward through the gate and walking to the rocking chair in the shade of the canopy, he skillfully removed the bottle cap on the metal edge of the support column. Pop took an icy sip and slowly sat down in the heavy wooden rocker with a sigh.
With his eyes closed, Pop mentally ticked off a list of jobs and chores completed and still to be done. “OK, I’m caught up for jobs promised and this is already Wednesday so I’ve got to get the office cleaned up before Mabel comes Thursday to do the books.” Mabel ran the beauty shop in town while doing accounting and financial planning work on the side. She owned her shop, handled the books for a half dozen other outfits, knew all the latest gossip in the county while singing in the church choir and still managed to volunteer time in the community.