100-Word Fiction: ‘Flying Scotsman’

It’s prehistoric, Jonesy had commented when Cam walked him through the engine shed to the turntable, where the locomotive gleamed in the electric light.

Aye, a mammoth job, Cam had replied.

Indeed it was. The smell of paint and grease had been in Cam’s nostrils for weeks. It was a beast all right. It was alien too; something from another world. You could smile or scratch your head, but to think people had lived side by side with these machines. The sooty towns and the crumbling villages. It was almost too much.

And now the information age, thought Cam. Ach.

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Author: MW Bewick

Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. 'Scarecrow', a debut collection of poetry is available now from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com

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