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View Diary: Write On! In memory of a writer. (60 comments)

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  •  Here's a couple attempts (1+ / 0-)
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    First is:

    One fine morning in May a slim young horsewoman might have been seen riding a glossy sorrel mare along the flower-strewn avenues of the Bois de Boulogne.
    (Okay, I figured someone had to try that, & see if anyone responded with "Hats off, gentlemen!")

    The second is:

    Wayne pulled back the protective cloth and stared at the broken time machine. Although it had brought him safely from the 25th century to Roman Italy in the second century, and its ceramic and metal surfaces gleamed like new despite sitting in a dirty shed for almost 20 years, he knew it was broken because it had failed to take him back.

    Many times he had turned it on, sent it through its complicated initiation processes, and entered the data for home over the years, admittedly less often as time went on, and still the machine failed to work. Wayne had tried every step of troubleshooting he could think of -- in the time he had come from he had been quite handy with computers and computerized gadgets -- but he failed to learn what was broken. And he knew that without debuggers, compilers, tools for forging and modifying circuit boards, and countless other things it would take him at least a lifetime to learn, he could not fix what was broken in the time machine. Yet every so often -- at first once a month, then every three or six months, and now once every year or two -- he found himself going through the steps once again. He would repeat each step and fail to make the machine take him home until he knew his efforts were pointless. Then he would then recover the machine, telling himself he would never see his friends or the numerous modern conveniences he missed, then return to his life in the second century. Only today he recovered the time machine without even turning the machine's power on.

    (Some day I will write this story of a stranded time traveler when I figure out the rest of the plot of his story. Until then, I am standing at his shoulder staring at a complex device watching him struggle with accepting it will never work, even after 20 years.)

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