The Graveyard of the Flying Machines

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.

View this story's 3 comments.