Ficlet: Factory Floor
Mar. 11th, 2010 08:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jhameiaTitle: Factory Floor
Wordcount: 300
Prompt: Twitter exchange with Talulah Mankiller, which ran as follows:
jhameia I want to write tonight, but not sure what: a) story about factory industrialization, b) bondage slave fic, c) #GirlGenius fanfic?
Lulumankiller @jhameia Girl genius runs a factory and has a bondage slave. Aren't mashups fun?
jhameia @Lulumankiller I'm not sure I could come up with an interesting, coherent plot for that.
Lulumankiller @jhameia I BELIEVE IN YOU.
“Up one degree.... two degrees... three. Stop.” Juna let out a breath of relief, stood up from the helio-megaoscillator and flexed her shoulders.
She waited.
Then she cleared her throat in annoyance, glaring out the corners of her eyes at the youth standing just three meters away, head bent over a silver tray. He snapped to attention and hurriedly ran to her side, taking a towel off the tray to dab at her forehead.
“We did it!” an assistant exclaimed as he took the readings. “We’re ready to create the feedback loop!”
“We?” she demanded archly.
“I mean... you, of course.” The assistant bowed quickly.
She nodded. “Turn it on, then.” She started to walk off.
“Won’t you watch our progress?”
“Are you saying something might go wrong with my project?”
“No! I mean. No, miss.”
She didn’t bother to reply, and stalked down the platform. Her soft boots made heavy thumping sounds from the weight of her step. The shouts, talking and laughter that emanated all over the factory floor quieted as the workers saw her. She gave them a cursory glance, refusing to squint to see their faces in the dim, dusty light.
Then only the clanging, clacking, cracking of the factory machines could be heard, out of respect for the young woman who designed the building and everything mechanical in it, and maybe out of fear, too.
As she approached the main door, she pointedly slowed her pace. When nothing happened, she sighed. “Suan, do you know what the average working period of a prole is?”
“No, mistress.”
“Five years. How long do you want to work for me for?”
“Oh, longer than that, mistress.”
“Then make yourself more useful, or you’ll join them.”
He dashed ahead to pull open the door.
“Good boy,” she said approvingly.
Wordcount: 300
Prompt: Twitter exchange with Talulah Mankiller, which ran as follows:
jhameia I want to write tonight, but not sure what: a) story about factory industrialization, b) bondage slave fic, c) #GirlGenius fanfic?
Lulumankiller @jhameia Girl genius runs a factory and has a bondage slave. Aren't mashups fun?
jhameia @Lulumankiller I'm not sure I could come up with an interesting, coherent plot for that.
Lulumankiller @jhameia I BELIEVE IN YOU.
“Up one degree.... two degrees... three. Stop.” Juna let out a breath of relief, stood up from the helio-megaoscillator and flexed her shoulders.
She waited.
Then she cleared her throat in annoyance, glaring out the corners of her eyes at the youth standing just three meters away, head bent over a silver tray. He snapped to attention and hurriedly ran to her side, taking a towel off the tray to dab at her forehead.
“We did it!” an assistant exclaimed as he took the readings. “We’re ready to create the feedback loop!”
“We?” she demanded archly.
“I mean... you, of course.” The assistant bowed quickly.
She nodded. “Turn it on, then.” She started to walk off.
“Won’t you watch our progress?”
“Are you saying something might go wrong with my project?”
“No! I mean. No, miss.”
She didn’t bother to reply, and stalked down the platform. Her soft boots made heavy thumping sounds from the weight of her step. The shouts, talking and laughter that emanated all over the factory floor quieted as the workers saw her. She gave them a cursory glance, refusing to squint to see their faces in the dim, dusty light.
Then only the clanging, clacking, cracking of the factory machines could be heard, out of respect for the young woman who designed the building and everything mechanical in it, and maybe out of fear, too.
As she approached the main door, she pointedly slowed her pace. When nothing happened, she sighed. “Suan, do you know what the average working period of a prole is?”
“No, mistress.”
“Five years. How long do you want to work for me for?”
“Oh, longer than that, mistress.”
“Then make yourself more useful, or you’ll join them.”
He dashed ahead to pull open the door.
“Good boy,” she said approvingly.