A.C.Franklin Fiction

Josiah B. was old and strange, but everyone knew he was the most incredible clockwork artist. That was why I’d gone to see him about my newest factory product. We needed something small and intricate; he was the man for the job. No matter how soot-coated his little hovel was. I brushed off my velvet suit. “Nicodemus Rexword. How do, sir?”

Josiah briefly squinted at me before lowering his glasses onto his hooked nose once more. I cleared my throat. “I come with a proposition. You’re so talented with clockwork—”

“No.”

I gaped, shocked. “You haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

Josiah tinkered with the pile of scrap under his magnifying lens. He smiled at his progress. “Go away. I’m busy.”

“Busy with what?” I huffed. “You can take a moment to discuss money.” I glanced at the shack again. “You ought to, at least,” I muttered to myself.

Josiah tsked, setting a cog. “You’ve the look of a factory man.”

“Indeed—”

“Then you’ve no business with me.”

I circled his cluttered worktable, setting my hands upon it. I removed them just as quickly at the feeling of flaky rust. “Now see here, my good man—”

“The things I make…” he trailed off, focused on his project. It clicked, eliciting a grin. “They have a soul. They can’t be copied. Here.”

He held up his hand. On it sat a tiny hummingbird, pieced together with safety pins and scrap metal. It whirred and clicked as it looked about before it began to flap its piecemeal wings. It made such a racket as it took flight! “What a cheap little thing! Why not make it with real metal and gears? If it were sleeker—”

“It has a soul,” Josiah stated, calm but firm. “Good day.”