The humble spoon. It looks innocuous. Some might call it benign.
Some have no imagination.
I don’t have a lot of time for people who pride themselves on their knife skills. Cutting out your victim’s heart with a knife, where’s the artistry in that? Also, a knife takes away the element of surprise. You pull a knife, people scream and fight and beg for their lives before you’ve begun to have any fun.
I get my spoon out, people laugh. They think they’ve been pranked, look for the camera.
It doesn’t look shiny, it doesn’t look new. It resembles the past, but worse.
Let’s pause for a minute.
We take what we see today and extrapolate the future from there. You know, we ended up expecting hoverboards and flying cars in 2015 because when they imagined our present in the 1980s, they couldn’t imagine dwindling supplies of energy.
The 2015 of 2015 doesn’t resemble the 2015 of 1989.
If I’d predict the world in 2041, I’d fall into the same trap.
So forget what I said about having seen the future.
Frieda scrambles to hide the journals. She’s only gone through ten pages. The girl who kept them didn’t write Spanglish, but English.
She hasn’t told anyone – they’d turn them into kindling. She’d gone to dig for water in the desert. She didn’t find water, but a metal box which contained the journals, sealed in thick film protecting them from damage.
Frieda is fascinated by them. They had swimming pools in Beverly Hills then. She tries to imagine having so much disposable water.
‘ Llueve. Vienes?’
She can’t imagine. So she goes to help collect rain water.
If that reminds you of something, I watched Elysium last night. I suppose that’s where that came from. It also makes use of the final Writing 101 prompt: the things we treasure.
I’ve started another blog: More Than 100 Words. I’m going to try to expand some of my 100-word stories into longer pieces. This one might be a candidate.
Hoth. That’s what I dress for. Going for a ride on my TaunTaun. I’m so far away from home, I might as well have gone to another planet.
There are no TaunTauns, actually. Walking is better for me, anyway, helps me keep warm. So do the layers I put on. First layer: thermal underwear. When I bought it en route, with money I should have handed over, the implications of my decision hit me. Bye, bye tropical paradise.
But where I come from, nobody dreams of running away to Fairbanks. I didn’t. They won’t come looking for me on Hoth.